


if i told you i could give you life

by LordeMidnight



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Smut, Non-Linear Narrative, Pregnancy, a bit of trademark fleabag cringe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-01-23 09:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21318034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordeMidnight/pseuds/LordeMidnight
Summary: She's depressed. She's spiraling. She's still over-the-moon-smack-you-in-the-arse-and-shit-on-your-face in love.Worst of all, she's pregnant.
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 118
Kudos: 411





	1. Episode 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this just kind of started as a way to pass time in a boring class, and then it kind of spiraled. I tried to have fun with it, let me know what you think :)

It's been three weeks since I last saw him. Since I last watched the back of his beautiful neck retreating into the darkness, leaving me cold and shivering under the orange light of the street lamp. It had been three weeks of absolute hell. My couch was well worn in, accessorized with snotty tissues and empty cartons of ice cream. My laundry had yet to be done; it sat in a giant pile just beyond the foot of my bed. Claire nicknamed it the “depression load.” Can’t disagree with her on that. Dishes were piled high in the sink.

And God, somehow my depression had physically manifested itself as well. I was sick, like, all the time. Puking into toilets the minute I woke up, which must be accredited to the junk food that I was practically inhaling. The fatigue was worse, though. Somehow I would manage to drag myself out of bed to work at the café, but it was all a façade when I was there. I would collapse to the ground the moment the ‘open’ sign was flipped to ‘close.’ I would collapse and breath and try not to empty my stomach’s contents.

Then five weeks go by. Claire visits from Finland, where she is atrociously happy with Klare, and took one look at me and said, “Get over him already,” in that drawling, no-nonsense way she always does. We are sitting on my couch, surrounded by my depression mess. She looks hilariously out of place, sitting with ramrod straight posture and a primly pressed cashmere sweater that showed off her collarbones rather nicely.

“I’m working on it,” I say around a spoonful of ice cream.

“This is working on it?”

“Yes.”

She doesn't respond, just heaves a sigh and takes another judgmental glance around the room. “I have to pee,” she says at last. “Is your bathroom at least somewhat clean?”

“Crystal.”

I continue shoveling useless calories down my throat while I listen to her rummaging around my bathroom. Dear God, is she actually cleaning it? “Just take a shit and leave it be, Claire, I’ll get to it eventually!” I call to her from the couch.

“It is disgusting in here,” says Claire, poking her head out from around the corner. “And I can’t find any tampons. Where are they?”

I freeze. Tampons. I had planned on buying more when I got my period, but…

I shoot up, eyes wide and bugging. I look at her, panic clearly written across my face. She examines me for a moment, and then realization strikes her as well.

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me.”

I slowly nod, unable to breath or speak or do anything else.

“No. No, no, no, no, no. Is it his?”

I repeat my actions. The lawyer had used many, many condoms and pulled out everytime. _He_, on the other hand, hadn’t used any, and I’m fairly certain (ok completely certain) that he had come inside me. Multiple times. 

“FUCK.”

* * *

An hour later Claire and I are staring at ten pregnancy tests. All positive. Claire is wringing her hands and pacing back and forth and just giving me a splitting headache in general. “Will you please relax?” I finally snap.

Claire halts in front of me with a withering look that could cut glass. “_Relax_?” she mimes. “You want me to _relax?!_ You’re the one who’s pregnant with the son of God!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Claire—”

“Yes, exactly! For _God’s_ sake. For God’s sake, please get a handle on the situation and realize it’s absolutely, batshit, fucking insane!”

“I’ll get an abortion.”

“Will you?”

“Yes!” (No.)

“You’re lying.”

“Listen—”

“What are you going to do about this?”

I pause. I know I want the baby, and the very thought of that takes me by surprise. I had never thought of myself as a mother, but having this part of him, growing inside of me. I feel complete, I realize with a shudder. A baby makes me feel complete. (God, am I the worst feminist ever, or what?)

I guess the answer is written on my face, because Claire finally sighs and seemingly admits defeat. It’s silent for a moment, and then: “Are you going to tell him?”

I look at the floor and fiddle with my nails for a moment. “I don’t know,” I mumble. And that’s an honest answer, at the very least.

Claire shares a look of consternation with me. “Figure it out.” She pulls her coat on and yanks her purse over her shoulder. “Soon. And don’t forget about tea at Godmother’s tomorrow. She’ll wring my neck if you don’t show up again.”

(Fuck.)

* * *

Twenty hours later I’m standing outside of Godmother’s. I don’t want to go in. I’d rather puke. (I might puke.) I ring the doorbell. (I’m going to puke, and for the first time in my life, it’s not because I downed a handle of vodka the night before.) I hear shuffling behind the door. As soon as the door swings open, revealing Godmother’s disgustingly cheerful face, I vomit all over her stupid velvet slippers.

Her screams are distant, but I feel warm arms wrap around me and haul me to standing posture. Claire drags me into the bathroom and rubs my back as I finish emptying my stomach. She leaves while I clean myself up, catching a glimpse at myself in the mirror as I do so. I look terrible. Bags under my eyes. Skin drained of any color. Grief-stricken.

I find myself praying before I brace myself to face the wrath of the woman I hate the most. My shoulders are tense, and my face is pulled into a grimace as I wander into the kitchen, where Godmother is standing, arms crossed, and hair pulled into that weird beehive hairdo. Lovely.

“You ruined my Gucci velvet slippers.”

“Sorry.” (Not really.)

“And you ruined my day. It was supposed to be _my day today_.”

“Erm… I thought it was just tea.”

“I think you have a problem.”

“Do you?” (I do have a problem, and it’s the fetus inside of me.)

She wordlessly slips a flyer for Alcoholics Anonymous across the table to me, makes an about-face, heading for the porch where dad and Claire are more than likely waiting. I trail after her, resisting the urge to laugh. When I enter onto the porch, Godmother spins around again, bun coming dangerously close to falling from its precarious perch, nostrils flaring. “We’re concerned.”

“Oh _God_—is this an intervention?!” (It’s clearly an intervention.)

“D—darling, we just think—” stammers dad.

“Yes it’s an intervention you lunatic!” screams Godmother, loud and shrill.

“Oh my—I’m pregnant!”

Silence. Godmother’s jaw drops open into a perfect O. I want to shove my fist into it. Dad starts making this weird hand motion like he’s juggling invisible balls. Claire collapses her head into her hands. (Smooth.)

“Slut,” says Godmother.

My eyes expand into saucers, and then dad is slowly rising out of his char, but he’s not looking at me, no, his anger is directed elsewhere. His face is slowly turning red. (Oh, God. He’s going to explo—.)

“How fucking dare you?!” His voice is low and controlled. Nothing like I’ve ever heard before. He doesn’t stumble over his words, he doesn’t use the passive tense, and he doesn’t avoid eye contact. No, this is something else entirely. And he’s staring at Godmother, eyes turned into sharp knives that are slowly cutting through her vile façade. “Don’t you _ever_ speak to my daughter like that again.”

(Go dad.)

I don’t have the chance to see her reaction, but Claire stands and yanks me out of the porch by my arm. She drags me through the house, stopping briefly to grab my purse, before running out onto the front sidewalk.

We halt just on the outskirts of the front lawn, both panting and heaving, and stare at each other for a moment. And then we burst into laughter, tears coming to both our eyes as we dissolve into unadulterated giggles.

“Holy fuck,” exhales Claire breathlessly.

“I know!”

“Wait until they hear who the father is.”

My laughs abruptly stop, and I give her the death stare.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, I—”

“Am totally fucking with you,” I say, playfully punching her in the arm.

“Fuck you.”

“Father already did.”

We smile at each other for a moment. “Want to grab a coffee?” asks Claire.

“Can’t. Have some things that I have to take care of.”

She nods in understanding, and we part ways.

* * *

When I get home I do all the research I can on pregnancy. I make an ultrasound appointment. I read up on everything I can—what supplements I need to take, if running is ok for the baby, what the different trimesters mean, and… how to be a single mother. I want the baby, this I know. But telling him—that’s a whole other fucking can of worms. I don’t want him to feel forced to leave the Church, but if I don’t tell him, I’d be lying about this big fucking thing that changes him into a metaphorical _Father_ into a whole ass, real fucking _Dad_.

I don’t even have his number anymore. (Neither does Claire, for the matter; I made her delete it the moment we parted ways, so that I couldn’t goad her into giving it back to me.) I suppose I could stop by the church, but he literally _banned me from the grounds_. He’d probably turn right the fuck around before I could even get my mouth open. Evade me at all costs.

That’s how I rationalize not telling him. I tell myself that this is the right thing to do, it’s my only choice.

* * *

And then I got an invitation to Godmother’s second annual sexhibition. It’s only a week after she called me a slut (that cunt), and I receive a call from Dad personally asking for me to come. He tells me it’s for the best, she’s sorry (if she’s sorry she can say it to my whore face), and that it’s probably best to put water under the bridge. I’m close to telling him where to shove it, but these memories flicker back to me—it’s dad pushing me on the swing, it’s us sitting on that couch mourning, it’s those stolen cigarette breaks we share together. I sigh. “Fine.”

A week later, I’m dressed in the sexiest thing I own, because once I start showing its bye-bye to this banging body. It’s a navy-blue dress with a plunging neckline and hem that hits me at just above mid-thigh. My morning sickness has steadily been getting better, and I convince myself that my pregnancy glow is setting in. My make-up is, in a word, fire, and I’m excited to fuck with Godmother all evening.

When I get there, out of habit, I immediately seek out the alcohol. I’m about to swipe a fake-glass champagne flute from the nearest waiter, (apparently there was a problem last year with someone getting drunk and shattering the glasses), before I stop myself. My hand goes to my belly. It’s flat still, but soon it won’t be. (Soon I’ll look like a whale.)

I spot Dad and Godmother across the room. Godmother locks eyes with me before flashing me the widest, fakest smile I’ve ever seen. “Darling!” she calls, arms spread. (Jesus, how can anybody have the energy to be so fake?)

I drag myself across the room to be introduced to a very fine hunk of a man. Todd, they say his name is. _Todd_ is an American who was recently arrested for protesting climate change in New York. Apparently, _Todd_ was with Ted Danson and Jane Fonda at the time. And _Todd _is totally full of himself.

“It was actually really empowering,” he says, nodding his head and flashing a peace sign. (Jesus, it’s like the 60s took a human form.) “I felt, like, so connected to the Universe.”

“Speaking of connections to higher powers,” says Godmother (what a leeway), “Have you met—” _him_. (It’s him. Holy Jesus and Mary and Joseph—it’s him. My priest. The father of my unborn child.) He’s standing there, on the edge of the circle, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, and looking so, so sexy. He had on that blue button down, sleeves rolled up, exposing those fine forearms and smattering of arm hair. Khakis that hugged his hips perfectly. Hair quafting just so.

“Oh fuck,” I hear myself saying.

His expression implies he's thinking the same thing.

“He officiated our wedding,” Godmother’s telling Todd, ignoring my outburst. “He has quite the interesting perspective on religion and the Catholic Church.”

He shakes hands with Todd. “It’s nice to meet you.” _Fuck, _the timber of his voice still makes me wet.

“And you remember my stepdaughter?”

“Yes,” he says. We make eye contact. It’s too intense. I look away.

“Oh! And there’s Felicia and Frank, you remember them darling, we went on a double date with them six months ago.” Dad and Godmother tittered off into the distance, with her blabbering on about some nonsense of how Felicia and Frank were early investors in Bitcoin, leaving me and _him_ and Todd.

“So,” Todd awkwardly begins, “how long have you been with the church?”

“Excuse me,” I say, making to leave the group. “I need a drink.”

(That was the worst excuse I could have made because––) “I’ll join you!” and then he’s at my side while I continue in my efforts to ignore him, training my eyes on the bar and making a beeline towards it. I make it to the nearest stool and collapse into it. He leans up against the bar next to me, arms crossed and cheeks puffed. I hope I’m not being too obvious in inhaling his aftershave, practically _gulping_ it in through the air.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks.

“Two gin and tonics,” he says.

“Hold the gin on mine.”

He gives me a curious glance.

“Trying to cut back,” I lie.

We’re silent as the bartender makes our drinks, silent as we both finish it in two gulps, silent as we twiddle our thumbs and pointedly ignore each other.

“You look nice,” he says finally.

“Thanks,” I finally meet his eyes, which are dark and tracking. They flicker down to my lips. “You look dashing.”

“Dashing, eh?”

“Positively dashing, delicious, and _damn fine_.”

“Not quite yet alliteration—you’d’ve been better off with dignified or something.”

“I save dignified for when you’re in the robes.”

“I do look damn good in those.”

“I believe it was _damn fine_.”

We stare at each other, smiling like idiots. Someone bumps into his back, forcing him to stumble closer to me. His crotch is level with my elbow, belt buckle digging into my skin. My breath catches, and I look up at him towering above me. He’s looking down at where I sit, teeth digging into his lower lip. He’s debating something. There’s a question in his eyes.

“I’m going to get some fresh air. Care to join me?”

The minute to cool air hits my face, he’s pushing me back up against the wall, putting his hands against the wood on either side of my face and leaning in so closely I can smell the gin on his breath as he exhales, ghosting my lips. “I want you so bad,” he rasps.

My breath hitches, and my hips involuntarily jump forward, seeking friction. He grabs my hip, stilling it and keeping some difference. I chase a kiss, but he pulls just far enough away so that my own lips barely whisper against his. I move to grab his head, but he catches my hands and pins them above my head. (I’m flooding my underwear at this point. Can barely think I’m so turned on.)

And then he ducks his head and scrapes his teeth against my neck. I moan, high and wanton, and _fuck_ he grinds his hard cock into my center and slowly pulses against me. His mouth moves down my neck, licking a path, moving towards my chest, and licking just inside the neckline. “This dress should be illegal,” he whispers into my skin.

“I need you,” I rasp, and he rises up to meet my lips, licking into my mouth and tracing my tongue with his own. It’s hot, it’s passionate, it makes me want to sob out an orgasm and it’s only been less than a minute. His grinding becomes incessant, and he releases my hands to push his own underneath my skirt, pulling my underwear to the side, and plunging two fingers inside of me. I gasp into his mouth, wrap my hands around his neck, as he slowly starts to fuck me with his fingers. 

"Fuck, you're so wet." His thumb finds my clit and begins rubbing at it in tiny, desperate circles. I can feel the heat building in my core, and _oh fuck this might be the fastest orgasm I’ve ever had_, and I’m just starting to fall over the edge when the door bursts open next to us.

We jump apart immediately, him cursing and I moaning in disappointment as his fingers are wrenched outside of me. I push down my skirt, looking to see who interrupted one of the best orgasms of my life, to find Claire and Klair standing before us. Klair, ever the bumbling gentlemen, had slapped a hand over his eyes and was profusely apologizing, blindly feeling his way back into the gallery. Claire ignores him even as he walks straight into the wall.

“What. The fuck. Do you think you’re doing?”

“I would’ve been coming if you didn’t interrupt,” I snap out of annoyance.

“Oh, shut up,” Claire spits at me.

“Hey—” he begins to come to my defense, but Claire shuts him down with a single look. He raises his hands in surrender. (Hands which are still covered with my juices.)

She returns to me and jabs a finger in my direction. “Bathroom. Now.”

* * *

“Claire, I’m sorry, I really am—” (I’m not.)

“What if someone had seen you?”

“Well, to be fair, someone _did _see us.”

“Not now.”

“I couldn’t help myself.”

Claire sighs. She no longer looks pissed. “You’re lucky it was me and not you-know-who…. Does he even know?”

“About?” (I genuinely don’t know what she’s talking about.)

She returns to being exasperated: “The _baby_!”

“Oh.” (That.) “No.”

“Well you have to tell him. Especially now.”

“I know.”

“And you should probably have a conversation about your relationship.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And you need—”

“Oh, fuck off, I know okay?! I know the situation is fucked, I know I’m weak, and I know I’m stupid for letting him finger fuck me in the alley without so much of an apology, okay? I’m just… I’m so out of my depths here, Claire. I love him. I really do. And not the way I loved Harry, because I never respected Harry. I respect this man. When I’m with him, something bubbles in my body, and when I’m away from him… I can’t breathe. And I know it’s not healthy, and I know this is the result of some deep-seated issues, but… he makes me happy. And I want the baby. I don’t care about anything else right now. I don’t care about Godmother being a fat cunt—” (this makes her laugh a bit) “—and I don’t care about dad being a pushover. Just me, him, and this baby.”

Claire is directing at me a new look of understanding. She quirks the corner of her lip up (the biggest smile I’ll probably ever get out of her) and says, “Does this mean you don’t care about me and Klare?” Her smile grows.

I play along. “I don’t give two flying shits about your happiness, no.”

We let ourselves be in the moment, and then we both fall into reality at once, because “We still have to go out there.”

And so, we do. I seek out my priest immediately. Claire is right, as usual; I have to talk to him about everything. I spot him entrenched in conversation with dad and Godmother. I begin to make my way over to them, and then my heart drops when Godmother throws her head back in laughter. (Oh no. Oh no. No, no, no, no.) I practically sprint across the room, coming to an abrupt halt when I reach them, trying to feign casualness.

“Oh, Father! It’s been a while, has it not?” (That was the wrong thing to say, because––)

“Didn’t you two already talk tonight?” It’s Todd. Can that fucker please just go away already?

“Ah, yes, but this one has been a bit out of sorts lately.” Godmother lies a considered hand on my arm, and I shake it off in disgust.

“Oh, that’s right, but, erm, I need to talk to you, about an—uh—a matter of faith!”

He catches on, luckily. “Oh, yes! You mentioned that earlier. Shall we get a drink at the bar?”

I move to run off to the bar with him, but Godmother stops me in my tracks with a hand around my wrist. (I swear to God if this cunt touches me one more time.) “But, dear, you can’t drink!”

“Right. Sobriety.” I shake her hand off, trying to reanimate our mission to the bar, but she’s captured his attention, and now he’s staring at her with an inquisitive look.

There’s an awkward silence, and then (no, no, _please no!_) Godmother starts blabbering: “Apparently, our little _dearie_, our social _sweetheart_” (please, put more bite into it) “is pregnant!”


	2. Episode 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation is had.

Twelve missed calls. I have twelve missed calls from an unsaved number, but the digits are familiar, and I know it’s _him_, and fuck, every time I look at my screen, those digits are inscribed into my memory. By the time the thirteenth one comes in, it’s ringing in tandem to the pounding on my front door. (Goddamn fucking shit in my arse.)

He’s standing there, drenched and shivering from the rain, and looking absolutely wrecked, phone pressed to his ear. I stand to the side, let him in and lock the door behind him. “You’re soaked. Let me get you a blanket.” He lets me shuck his coat from his shoulders, dropping it to the ground, before dragging him over to the couch and wrapping a blanket around him.

“You’re pregnant,” he says, emotionless.

I sit next to him. “Yes.”

“How?”

“Well, when two people love each other very much—”

“Oh, fuck off. I mean… how? I thought you were on birth control.”

“I—I was.”

“Was?”

I decline to explain the fact that I was such a wreck this past month that any thought of routine, self-care, or anything as bloody simple as taking a daily pill, had been eradicated from my brain in favor of him, of only him. “Was.”

“And it’s mine.”

“…Pretty sure,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows. “What about Mr. Nine Times.”

“No—no we used a condom,” I rush to explain.

“And you and I definitely did not,” he concludes.

Our eyes finally meet. His eyes are wide and begging. (How does he make grief look so sexy?)

“Stop that.”

(Oh right. He notices when I do this thing.)

“Stop it. Don’t disappear on me. I need you here, right now, with me and only me. This is—this is insane.”

I scramble to think of the right words. “I—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I only just found out a week ago and you basically banned me from your life and my head was spinning—still is spinning—and then I was trying to figure out what the _fuck_ to do about it and then I saw you tonight and we had barely exchanged two words before—before we… you know.” I pause to talk a gulp of fresh air. “And then I saw you with my Godmother and I thought—… I was going to tell you, I promise—”

“Sh sh sh sh sh, no, hush, don’t apologize,” he says, enclosing my shaking hands in both of his. “I’m not mad at you. Well, maybe a little because you _did_ run off on me in the middle of the party, leaving me with your awfully nosy step-mother while my world came crashing down around me, but I’m not mad at you for being pregnant or not knowing how to tell me.”

Relief courses through me, and we’re silent for a moment. He starts tracing the backs of my hands with his thumbs, electrifying my skin. And then he starts again, cadence slower, more serious. “This past month or so… I’ve been totally miserable. I’ve drunk myself to sleep almost every night. I’ve delivered the most nonsensical sermons. And I’ve missed you like crazy. Which is why I agreed to go to her—her—what’s it called?”

“Her sexhibition,” I offered.

“Right! Yes, her sexhibition. Creative name, I must say.”

“I think it’s dreadful.”

“Not dignified?”

I snort, “No, certainly not. Dreadful, dramatic, and _damn_ miserable.”

He huffs a laugh. “Anyhow, I needed to see you. And I’m glad I did.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He moves to kiss me, but I turn my head away, and his lips rub up against my cheek. “I—uh—” I’m stammering as his hands leave mine, and he shifts back away from me. “I’m scared,” I say at last. “You’ve dumped me twice already—at a bus stop, no less—and now I’m pregnant and it’s all very scary. I don’t want to force you into anything.”

“You’re not—”

“No! Listen,” I’m standing now and pacing the length of the couch. He watches me, blanket wrapped adorably around his head like a pashmina, with wide eyes. “You fucking hurt me. And that shit you pulled tonight—it’s all very confusing. I want you to forget about the baby for a minute. Pretend I’m getting an abortion.” If he wants to be with me, I want it to be of his own volition. “Now what? You leave the priesthood? Or do you keep stringing me along, continuing in this fucking on-again, off-again nonsense until one or both of us have a psychotic break?”

“That’s not—”

“Isn’t it though?!”

“No!” he’s shouting now, too, on his feet and crowding my space a bit. “It’s not! Because I love you and I’m pretty fucking sure that I always will. I was wrong. It’s not God.” His voice lowers now, becomes unbearably endearing and soft, “It’s you. It’ll always be you.”

He turns away, (Are you hearing this?) running his hands through his hair and resuming the pacing that I had abandoned. “And I’m not saying that because you’re pregnant. I can’t go another day trapped in that fucking Church. It feels more like a prison and—”

I cut him off. My lips are on his and I’m devouring his being, wrapping my arms around his neck and pushing my body flush against his.

He moans in surprise, but it only takes him a moment before he’s responding in earnest, giving as good as he’s getting, grabbing at my ass. We part for a moment and stare at each other, cheeks flushed. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you, too.”

And now we’re kissing, slow and soft, and his lips are agonizingly sweet, parting my own with a gentleness that rivals—I don’t know, a fucking meadow? His hands travel up my body, grazing my waist, my breasts, before wrapping around my neck and cupping my jaw. He pulls back, just slightly, before kissing my nose. The sweetness of the action causes my eyes to close, and then his lips kiss both of my eyelids, my cheeks, my chin. He licks his way to my ear, sucking on it and then exhaling just so that I shiver, hips keening forward to seek out friction. Desperate now, I push him back down on the couch and straddle him, bringing our centers together. I gasp as I rub my clit against his hard cock, separated from his trousers and the thin layer of my knickers, which are surely ruined.

He grabs the hem of my dress and pulls it off above my head, brain surely short-circuiting when he sees I’m not wearing a bra. His mouth immediately takes in my nipple, and I moan louder as he lightly nibbles on it. I’m scrambling to unbuckle his belt, while his hand wanders up my inner thigh and begins rubbing at my clit, still working my nipple between his lips and teeth.

I finally manage to undo his fly, reaching into his trousers and wrapping a hand around his length. He hisses as I pull him free, his tip already leaking with precum. I yank his head away from my tit, scrambling backward to get on my knees in front of him. I rub the precum into his tip with my thumb, before leaning forward and licking the vein that runs up the underside of his considerable length. He moans as I take the tip of his cock in between my lips, making circles with my tongue as I do so. His hands card their way into my hair, and he pushes me down his length, once, twice, three times (I’m gagging) before pulling me off with an obscene _pop_. “I’m not going to last if we keep doing that,” he rasps.

I look up at him and the sight he makes causes me to get even wetter, if that’s even possible. His pupils are bleeding, chest heaving, expression _hungry_. Before I know it, I’m flat on my back, legs spread, as he rips my knickers clean off of me (yep, definitely ruined) and bites the inside of my thigh. My hips lift involuntarily off the floor, and he growls, pushing them back down and locking an arm across me so that I don’t move.

He releases the skin from his teeth, traces the bite mark with his tongue, before ghosting a trail up to my now exposed pussy and gently parting my folds with his lips. (Fuck, I forgot how good he was at this.) His tongue begins to rub slow, torturous circles against my clit, pressure slowly building. “Please,” I beg.

“Please what?”

I know this isn’t what he means (he wants me to tell him what to do), but I can’t help myself when I call out, voice laden with lust: “Please, Father!”

He _growls_ in response, pulling me closer to him and plunging a finger inside of me, knuckle deep. When I moan and try to cant my hips, he adds two more fingers, pumping them in and out of me while he continues to work at my clit. I’m writhing by the time he adds a fourth, and when he does, I come immediately, hips rocking, and my world going white and ringing.

“Fuck,” he says when I come to, leaning back onto his heels to push his trousers down and off his legs. He shucks his shirt off, then climbs up my body until our hips are even, putting his head slightly above mine. Holding his cock in one hand, with the other placed where my skull meets my neck, he gently cranes my neck so that I have the perfect view of his cock rubbing at my entrance. I bit my lip at the image I see, his head red and swollen, slowly being coated with my juices.

“You want my cock?” he breathes into my ear.

“Yes, Father.” (Soon I’ll be calling him daddy.)

He growls again and roughly pushes into me, and I nearly come again at just the sight of his entire length disappearing inside of me. Without giving me time to adjust to enormous size, he sets a brutal pace, whispering dirty litanies in my ear. I can feel every inch of him as he pounds mercilessly, my hips rocking up to meet every thrust. It feels like no time at all has passed before I throw my head back and come, white light blinding me once again (Is this what it’s like to see God, to feel Heaven?) In the midst of my orgasm, I feel him shudder, steadily pumping his cum deep inside of me.

My orgasm was so intense I can do nothing but try and catch my breath while he collapses on top of me, both of us boneless and spent.

Eventually, he rolls over onto his side, top arm wrapping around my waist. I feel him give me a peck on my forehead. We’re silent, blissful for a moment, before he breaks the silence: “For once, your tits have brought me peace instead of ruining it.”

Laughter consumes my world before sleep succeeds it.

* * *

The next morning, we’re sitting in my breakfast nook, giving each other eyes over steaming cups of coffee. My foot is slowly trailing up my leg, teasing him at the edge of his robe.

“So, when’s your appointment?”

“My what?”

“Your appointment…for the baby.”

“Oh, um—” (Do you think he means abortion or ultrasound?) “Well—”

“Because I’d like to be there for it.”

(Abortion? Ultrasound? Abortion?!)

“I’d like to be there for all of it.”

(Ultrasound.) “When you say you’d like to be there…”

“I’d like for us to keep it, yeah.”

I’m blushing like a schoolgirl. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And now we’re staring at each other like two idiots, (and doesn’t it just make you want to start puking all over again?)

As if on cue, my stomach lurches. (Oh, no.) I barely make it to the sink before I’m throwing up acidic, slimy coffee. I feel him follow me and hold my hair back from my face, rubbing soothing circles into my back. I finish, then rinse out my mouth, drying my face with a towel.

I take a shower afterward, washing off the puke and sex and grime from my body. I dress in a jean skirt and stained blouse and apply some light make up. By the time I’m finished, the dishes are done for the day, and I’m pretty sure the house looks cleaner than it did yesterday. (Looks like a man is good for more than just sex, after all.)

We end up taking a short stroll to the café so that I can finish up some accounting. He loses himself in a book stolen from my bookshelf as I try to balance my finances, stealing glances over the tip of my pen ever so often.

“You’ve made a mistake,” he says after a few minutes.

“Where?” I frown at my paper.

“Forgot to carry the decimal when you were calculating your compound interest.”

“Oh.”

“You know there are computer programs that can do this for you. Or I can.”

“Oh?” (Oh?)

“I used to be an investment banker.”

I can’t help but show my surprise. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. So basically, you’re set for life.”

(Set for life, he says?)

“What?! You don’t believe me!”

“No, no, of course—” my voice gets a little _weird _whenever I’m lying, and he’s of course picked up on this fact by now.

“I used to make 250,000 euros in a whole year.” He expands his hands wide as if to show me that such a gesture is synonymous with that amount.

“Oh, don’t tell me I’ve scored a father, a dad, _and _a sugar daddy, all in one fell swoop?”

He blushes and laughs, “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

(Unf.)

“Can’t believe I’m going to be a dad.”

“We’re really doing this?”

No hesitation: “Yeah.”

We stare at one another in blissful silence for a moment, before realization dawns upon both our faces. (Oh, shit… we’re really doing this.) I jump when he jolts to his feet, hands waving wildly. “We’re having a baby!”

“I know!”

“This is insane!”

“I know!”

“We’re having a fucking baby!” he’s yelling at this point, face all lit up and split with a grin. (He’s so happy it hurts to watch.) He collapses back in his chair, running his hands through his hair in awe. “I hope it’s a girl.”

“Me too.”

“And I hope she has your height.”

“I hope she has your arms.”

“Your cheekbones.”

“Your neck.”

“My neck?! What’s so great about my _neck_?”

“It’s so knock-your-socks-off sexy.”

“That’s what does it for you? My neck?”

“I just want to sink my teeth into it.”

“And you want our daughter—” (Our _daughter!_) “—to have the same neck as me because you find it _sexy_.”

“I suppose it is a bit weird. Fine. I hope she has your eyes.”

We lapse into a happy reverie, and my mind wanders. We’re having a baby. And we’re already talking about the gender and soon we’ll be discussing names and then there will be that whole conversation regarding how we’ll raise her: what religion; what politics (oh God, we’ve never had a conversation about politics); what habits she’ll cultivate.

_She_. I keep thinking of her as a girl, and I suppose that’s not a healthy way to envision it since it could easily be a boy. I just keep thinking of mum, how happy she’d be for me. How fucking pissed she’d be too—I literally lured a man out of priesthood. She flashes in my mind for a moment, eyebrow cocked in the way she’d always do when she’s teasing me. Or when she’d flick cookie dough at me from her spoon, her make-shift catapult and weapon of choice whenever she and I would play-fight in the kitchen. The curl of her wrist around the wooden spoon as she returns to mixing the batter.

If I’m only half as good as a mother, I’ll do a good job. Because she’ll always be there with me, whispering in my ear, and alive in my head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing my best to stay as close to character as I can, while incorporating and building upon some elements from the show. Hope everyone is still enjoying!!
> 
> Up next:  
Questions grappled by some of our lead characters: Will their happiness last?; How do they come clean with those they're close to?; How does one simply leave a life behind?


	3. Episode 3

“I think you may have to take me shopping.”

“Is that so?”

“I have no idea what the fashions are anymore! And _oh _am I going to miss the comfort of those robes.”

“Did you ever go commando?”

He grins at me over the rim of his beer, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

We dissolve into giggles together (and oh God, we’re the couple that _giggles_ now, how fucking adorable are we?)

“Mmm, tell me your fantasies, Father,” I say around the straw to my gin and tonic, hold the gin.

His eyes go dark, and if we weren’t sitting in the middle of a crowded bar at a popular restaurant at 6 p.m., I think he’d be inclined to rip my clothes into shreds. Instead, he leans close, lips brushing the shell of my ear, and says, “Take off your underwear.”

(Oh Father, I knew you were kinky but…) I swallow. Stand on shaky legs. Then whisper in his own ear, “As you wish, Father.” Off I go to the restrooms, making sure I cast the sexiest look I can muster over my shoulder at him. He’s staring at me like I’m something _delicious_, and I’m sure there’s nothing he’d like more than to eat me up later tonight.

I take off my underwear in the stall, and when I’m making my way back to him, I see he has company. Some guy is in his face, drunk and nearly incoherent over the steady thrum of the music. “Where is she?” I hear him slurring, and my heart drops when I get close enough to see who it is. Just our fucking luck.

“Oh fu—_Martin_?!”

Martin turns, unsteady on his feet, and obnoxiously laughs when he sees me, throwing his head back to reveal two nostrils desperately in need of cleaning. (Ugh.)

“Oh, look who it is! My soon-to-be ex-sister-in-law! Just my fucking luck!”

(At least we’re in agreement about that.)

“I hear you’re _pregnant_!” He starts slow-clapping. “Congratu-fucking-lations. I’m shocked it didn’t happen sooner since you’ve probably fucked all of London by now.”

“You’re so sweet,” I say. “Guess the baby actually wants me as it’s mum, unlike some.”

“Oof,” Martin mimes being hit in the chest. “Sick burn. Where’d you hear that from?”

“Excuse me—” cuts in my priest, ever the diplomat, “but she and I are trying to enjoy our night, so if you could please, just go bother someone else or walk off a cliff or ruin your life elsewhere—I don’t really give a fuck which.” He stands now, putting himself in between myself and Martin, no doubt remembering the last time the two of us were in the same room surrounded by alcohol.

Martin doesn’t take his eyes off of me. “Oh, what, now you’re fucking the Priest too? Real classy.”

Silence descends on the three of us, as the shockingly astute statement sinks in. I bite my lip and hedge a look at my priest, while he looks like he’d rather take his own advice and jump off a cliff. Martin, to his credit, picks up on the tension right away.

“Ohhhh. No fucking way.” He begins gesturing back and forth between the two of us with that grimy finger. “Ohh, that is just _too_ good! What’s next? _He’s_ the father of your kid, too?”

More silence.

Martin’s face turns gleeful, if a bit disbelieving. “Get the fuck out of here! You got knocked up by a _priest_?! Oh, this just keeps getting better and better.”

“Listen, Martin—” begins my priest, licking his lips as he begins his defense, “We would really appreciate it if—”

“If what?! If I kept this on the D.L.?? The down-low? No way, Jose.” He waves his finger back and forth, accidentally hitting some poor passerby in the eye (_“Ow!”_) before narrowing his beady little eyes at me. “_You are sooo fucked._” And with that, he makes a dramatic exit, slapping a tray of food out of a waitress’s hands as he stumbles out.

* * *

“He did _what_?!” I hold the receiver six inches away from my ear as Claire screeches on the other end. “I can’t _believe_ that he would—”

“Claire, it’s honestly not a big deal,” I say, struggling to keep up with my priest on the wet sidewalk. “I mean, I’m not the one who’s pissed at least. We’re on our way to tell them.”

“No one should speak to you that way,” he says, jaw set and gaze locked ahead. (Honestly, he’s kind of hot when he’s on a mission.)

“Well, where is he now?” snaps Claire.

“Who? Martin?”

“_Yes_, Martin!”

“I don’t know, he basically crawled out of the joint he was so fucked up.”

“Ugh, this is so typical of—”

“Uh, Claire, listen, we’re kind of here, so—”

She doesn’t seem to hear me, just continues on with her rant: “—it’s just like the time we were in Barbados, you know, when he—”

“Bye Claire!” I hang up the phone just as we descend on the house. We make our way up the short walkway, the gardens looking perfectly disheveled (damn her design skills), and he makes to pound on the door when I catch his arm in my hand.

“Wait!”

“What?”

“Are you sure you want to tell them? I mean, it is late after all—Martin’s probably passed out in a dumpster somewhere––and they’re still kind of already shocked by the whole pregnancy thing, and I don’t know if—”

He cuts me off by pounding on the door one, two, three times. (Maybe he can pound into me tonight as well?) He’s spitting through his teeth as he hisses out, “I will not let that scumbag be the one who spreads the news of our—”

The door swings open, revealing dad’s happily surprised grin. “Oh, darling, we weren’t expecting you tonight!” There’s music wafting softly in the background, and I can hear the gentle lilt of voices throughout the house. He’s wearing a suit, and just behind him is a similarly dressed couple, one in a formal gown and the other in a tie. “It’s so kind of you to stop by, although I’m not sure if…” he trails off. “Oh, hello Father. It’s nice to see you, too.”

“Likewise. I hope we aren’t interrupting.”

“Oh, well, it’s just…” he bumbles, “We’re having a soiree tonight to thank the benefactors of the sexhibition—the buyers, I mean…”

“Right,” I say. “Well, we’ll just be on our way—”

“Nonsense, I’m sure one champagne won’t do any harm,” he waves us in. “Although, maybe not for you dear, because of the… you know….”

As I step over the threshold, I notice the blank look in his eyes and rosy cheeks. (Looks like someone has had a drink. Or four.) He sways on his feet. (Or perhaps dissolved one of Godmother’s Xanax in his champagne.)

“Dear,” says Godmother, sweeping around the corner, pearls clanking into each other, “Who was it—oh, hello, Father! What a delight to see you after you so suddenly disappeared from my _sex_hibition.” She puts a bit too much emphasis on the word ‘sex’ and trails a hand over his bicep, lingering too long. I resist the urge to smack her hand away.

“So nice to see you as well,” he says. “We were just popping by—”

“Oh, it’s you,” she says sending me a cursory glance. “Anyway, Father, I was hoping to pick your brain…” she drags him away from me, and he sends me one last pleading look before being swallowed by the crowd.

I give him a quick grimace, before returning my attention to dad. “This is quite the party.”

“Ah, yes, actually… I was just about to retire to the gardens for a breath of fresh air. Care to join me?”

We make our way outside with ease, leaning up against the picket fence to stare longingly at the sky. Something about these stolen moments with dad makes me yearn for mum, especially when we’re at the house. I inhale, the sweet smell of summer invading my senses, but the scent of her cigarette is missing from the cloying humidity. I crave a hit of nicotine but resist the urge to finish off the pack of cigarettes at the bottom of my purse.

Dad, as if reading my mind, says, “You don’t happen to… you know…” he mimes a cigarette with his hands, a peace sign tapping on his lips.

I smile, “You know, you really shouldn’t smoke around the baby.”

“Oh! Oh, you’re right, I’m sorry dear—”

“But here,” I hand him the unfinished pack. “Save them for a rainy day.”

He nods and accepts them, twiddling them in his hands for a moment with that nervous energy that permeates his being. (Oh, just get it out already––) “Speaking of… the baby. Are you…?”

“I’m keeping it.”

“Oh! Oh, right, good,” he blushes then, a soft smile blessing his face. “I’ll be a grandfather, then.”

I smile back.

“You’re really going to raise it all on your own?”

“No,” I say. “Not alone. I have you. I have Claire. I have mum,” I point to my heart, “right in here. And, of course, I have the Father.”

“Right, right…” he trails off, but then catches on to my words, and his head snaps back up. “So, the father is in the picture then?”

“Oh yes. Very much so.”

“Well, who is it?”

“Someone I love. Very much.”

He gives me another tight-lipped smile. “Well, I hope you can bring him around some time so that we can meet him.”

“Actually…” I trail off, and I’m about to come clean when the back door bursts up and laughter spills out across the lawn. I look over, hoping to see _him_, but instead of the man I love, it’s the woman I hate, who’s waving a very drunken arm to capture our attention.

“Yoo-hoo!” she calls. “Darling, come meet the woman who bought your cock!”

(What the fuck?)

Dad scrambles to put together an excuse before the words choke him too much, and he runs off in an embarrassed hurry, slipping in under her arm that’s holding open the door. She pins me with a leveling look before jutting out her chin and joining him inside.

(His cock?) Curiosity takes over me, and I make my way into the kitchen as well, keeping an eye peeled for my priest. I do spot dad talking to some fat lady, who’s holding two of those casted dildos from the sexhibition as if they’re prized trophies. (Good for her.)

As I move throughout the house, I let my eyes linger on the picture frames mounted in the hallway, mostly ones of Claire. Oh, look, there’s Claire on her wedding day, looking like she stepped out of a Victorian horror story. Oh, and there’s Claire graduating from Oxford, a smile just beginning to strain at the corners of her mouth. There’s dad and Godmother, taken before mum died, smiling at the beach together. (Probably taken by mum, too.) I scan over the images, and manage to find one of myself, tucked in the corner, no older than eight, my smile mostly gums and tongue from missing teeth. I can see mum’s hands wrapped around my shoulders, hugging me in close to her body, but the camera had cut off any defining features besides the mole on her right wrist.

I remember the day this was taken. The playground just around the block. Swinging so high on the swing set that I thought the chains would detach from the pole and I’d go rocketing into the sky. Her lips on my scabbed, bloody knees when I took a mean fall from the slide.

My heart aches, and tears spring into my eyes. No. Not here. Fuck. I thought I was over this. I need a drink. A smoke. A random fuck. I have to get out. I spin around, seeking out the door, but the crowd seems to be closing in on me. Fuck, there are way too many people in this house. I push my way through, and when warm hands enclose around my waist from behind, I whip around to smack whoever the perpetrator is. I miss, and my hand connects with the man’s drink, sending it flying into the wall and shattering into pieces.

“Oh fuck! I’m so sorry.” I did not just almost hit my boyfriend (boyfriend?) right across the face.

He blinks a couple of times, slightly stunned, before shaking his surprise away. “What was that for?”

“I’m sorry, I—” I cut myself off, still panic-stricken and agitated.

“Are—are you ok?”

* * *

Two minutes later, I’m outside once again, leaning on his shoulder while he polishes off a mini bottle of fireball.

“You want to talk about it?”

“It’s my mum.”

“Your—”

“I miss her. I want her to be here. For this.”

I feel him push his nose into my scalp and inhale my scent, filling his lungs. I slowly lift my head off my shoulder and quirk an eyebrow at him. “Were you just smelling me…? While I mourned my mother?”

“It’s just that you smell so good!”

“And you smell like cinnamon and whiskey.”

“Perhaps I overindulged for the night,” he says sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. You’re still… you’re still processing.”

“Anyway—” he says, tossing the bottle into a nearby trashcan, “you were saying…about your mum.”

I pause, letting my thoughts marinate before pushing them over my tongue. “She was so beautiful, you know. Just full of grace and…and this type of _swagger_. She could dance, you know. When I was little she’d pick me up around my waist and spin me round and round and round until I was so dizzy I couldn’t make it two steps before falling over. Perhaps that’s why I like drinking so much,” I huff a self-indulgent laugh. “But when _she _danced, it was like she was walking on air.”

I look over to him now, and he’s listening to me with these wide eyes, hanging on to my every word. There’s a quirk to his lips, and he nods once. “She sounds beautiful.”

“And I could talk to her about anything, you know. She’d sit there and listen to me cry about my problems—most of which were self-inflicted—and then give me this cutting, no nonsense advice that would immediately put me back in my place. She was sharp, that way. But then she’d get so soft and would wrap her arms around me and hold me.” I look at him now as he gently places a hand on my knee and squeezes. “I think that’s what I love most about you, too. You listen.”

“I like to hear your voice,” he says.

“It’s more than that. You—you listen, and you comprehend and I—I’m so grateful for you.”

His eyes are watering now, and silence stretches out between us. There are no more words to be said. It’s just me, him, and the space we inhabit.

The spell is broken as fucking _Todd _drunkenly stumbles out of the front door. He mumbles incoherently before slumping against the paneling and slowly falling to the ground.

“I think that’s my cue,” says my priest. “I haven’t been back to my place in 48 hours, and Pam is probably wondering where I’ve run off to. And I have to prepare a sermon for tomorrow.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.”

“You think it’s okay to let Martin run loose in the meantime?”

“Should be fine. He’s full of empty threats.”

He heaves himself to his feet, starts fiddling around on his phone, and I walk with him to the end of the driveway. “Uber should be here in—oh, there it is. Um, well. I’ll call you?”

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll come to your sermon tomorrow. Not wearing any underwear, of course.”

“Oh fuck, you’re not still—?”

“Oh, you bet.”

“God, you’ll be the death of me,” he says, pecking my forehead in a quick goodbye before dipping into the Mazda. The car bolts off, leaving me on the sidewalk.

(_Let’s hope not_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season one, the flashbacks concerned Boo. Season two, they concerned the funeral and her shifting familial dynamics. In my version of season three, they concern her relationship with her mum. 
> 
> Also, I'm beginning to hint at some things that my spell trouble for our favorite couple. While it'll build to a happy ending (no worries on that front), it's not going to be smooth sailing. But that's part of the fun.
> 
> I really loved writing Martin! I could hear his voice in my head as I wrote that scene, and I feel like it unfolded pretty well.
> 
> I hope everyone is still enjoying! Sorry no smut this chapter, and a light dusting of angst.


	4. Episode 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. She pays the Father a visit at his Church. Things do not go as planned. 2. Someone unexpectedly drops by her flat. 3. They go in for an ultrasound.

True to my word, I show up for Sunday mass, wearing a paisley dress and, of course, no underwear. I sit in my usual spot, on the left side, a few pews back, and silently thank God that there wasn’t too big of a turn out for today. When he catches me in the crowd, panic runs across his face for all of two seconds, before he’s pushing down the most adorable, boyish grin. I bite my lip and smile back at him, and luckily everyone else is distracted and consumed in prayer with bent necks and closed eyes, so I carefully pull my skirt up just a few inches to let him in on my secret.

His eyes bug out of his head when he sees I’m not wearing any underwear (looks like he’s going to have an aneurysm, really) and that one vein in his temple starts pulsing. I push my skirt back down when the organ ceases, but not before catching eyes with— (oh fuck me hard and fast and sideways)—Pam. Pam, who’s looking at me with a murderous expression, jaw clenched, and the knuckles standing out against the leather of her Bible.

(You don’t think she noticed…?)

Our Father, to his credit, doesn’t seem to catch on, delving into his sermon in that soothing voice of his. I try my best to ignore Pam, who has pinned me with her gaze throughout the service. The organs start to blast again when everyone stands for Holy Communion, and without even giving it a second thought—I did receive this sacrament, after all, at the instance of my grandmother—I’m standing in line, waiting to receive the body and blood of Christ.

My heart hammers in my chest as the line proceeds, and I watch as he places the wafer on the girl’s tongue in front of me. She moves over, and then it’s my turn. His eyebrows jump in surprise when he sees me, and he almost mechanically raises the wafer in the air. “The body of Christ,” he whispers, voice going all raspy and rough.

“Amen.” He places the wafer on my tongue, and it takes everything in me to not close my lips around his fingers. I almost expect them to at least graze my skin, but he’s ever the professional and retreats his hand fairly quickly. My eyes trail to his own lips, and _fuck, _he’s biting his lower lip, and if I had on any underwear, I’d be flooding it right now. We lock eyes for a moment, and then I duck my head, moving to the left to drink the wine. (One taste can’t hurt, right?)

I watch my feet on my way over, still flustered from the short interaction, only looking up when I’ve arrived. Fuck. It’s Pam, and she’s looking at me like I just killed her cat (or fucked her roommate.) I bow my head in greeting, trying to soothe the tension a bit.

“The blood of Christ,” she spits.

(Okay, she definitely noticed.)

“Amen,” I say.

She’s lowering the gauntlet to meet my lips, which enclose around the brim. She steadily lifts the base, and the wine flows over my tongue. Perfect. A sip is all I need. Except she keeps tilting the gauntlet. Confused, I open my mouth to let in more wine, but then she basically upends the gauntlet and it’s too much, it’s all too much; the wine is overflowing from both my mouth and gauntlet and streaming down my chin and neck to my chest and it’s _sticky_—I step away, mouth gaping, front stained in red, while the rest of the wine splashes onto the marble floor. “What the fuck?!” I sputter.

“I am so sorry dear!” she apologizes, voice dripping in fake sincerity. “Here, take this,” she offers the rag she was using to wipe down the gauntlet after each person took a sip.

I accept the rag, a bit dumbfounded by the fiasco, and cast my gaze over to my priest. He’s looking on in horror, but the person at the front of the communion line clears their throat, and he jumps. He resumes his priestly duties, while I, front soaking and skin burning from embarrassment, stiffly walk off into the hallway to rush into the bathroom.

By the time I return to the Church, dress cleaned and dried to the best of my abilities, the pews are empty, and Pam is nowhere to be seen. He’s sitting in the front row, robes discarded, in that all-black outfit with the white collar that almost makes the cloying scent of cabernet worth it. I sit next to him, and we’re silent for a few moments.

“I’m sorry—”

“I told you not to come.”

“Yeah, but—but we made up and—”

“It doesn’t matter. I told you not to come, and you did.” 

“Seriously? Last night, I said that I might stop by—”

“I thought you were kidding,” he stands and rolls his neck, relieving himself of some tension. “Fuck, I need a drink,” he mutters under his breath.

“Maybe you should ask Pam,” I say, making a stab at levity. When he simply shoots me a look, I stand and turn to leave, “I’ll go.”

“No, wait—” he stops me with a delicate hand on his shoulder. “I’m not mad.”

I give him a disbelieving look.

“Ok, well, maybe a little. But, ah, fuck, I just can’t have you coming here until I have all the ends tied. I need to come clean with Pam first. I’ve already talked to my Bishop—”

“You have? When?”

He’s sheepish for a moment. And then, in a hoarse voice, he says, “A week before I saw you again.”

I melt under his gaze, and then we’re just staring at each other for a few moments, the implications unfolding across the space between us.

A loud cough interrupts our reverie, and I turn to see Pam watching us, arms crossed across her chest, accusatory and searching. “Father, may I have a word with you?” she asks in that booming voice of hers.

“Of—of course, Pam, I’ll be right there—” he nods to her as she disappears down the hallway. “I have to—”

“Right, yeah, of course. I’m getting tea with Claire in a bit before she goes to the airport, anyway.”

“Ok. I’ll call you.”

His gaze is still soft on me as I walk backwards down the aisle, even as I bump into a pew.

“Red suits you.”

“I think I’m pulling it off well.”

“Oh, get out of here.”

“As you wish, Father.”

* * *

I step outside into the bright sunlight of the day, taking in a deep breath to suck it all in. (What a beautiful day to be in love. I feel so content and peaceful and––.)

My phone starts beeping, and I check to see Claire calling.

“Hello?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

“Oh, um—”

“Nevermind,” she says. “It’s urgent.”

“Another bad haircut?”

“Shut up, no. It’s Martin.”

(_That wanker_.)

* * *

“What happened to you?” asks Claire by way of greeting, pulling her luggage behind her.

I look down at my still wine-stained dress. (Oh, um…) “…angry ex?”

“Jesus,” says Claire, waving down the hostess for a table and settling her coat into the crook of her elbow. “Your rap record will get you killed one day.”

We’re sitting in a cramped corner of the restaurant when Claire divulges the news.

“So, let me get this straight?” I ask Claire, stirring some sugar into my tea. “Martin tried to blackmail you into getting together again?”

“Yes,” says Claire. “It’s absolutely, positively ridiculous.”

“What was he holding over your head?”

“What do you think?”

(Oh, right, the pregnancy and the Father and the whole she-bang.) “But what does that have to do with you?”

“Not to worry, I shut him down. But now he’s threatening to pull Jake out of the youthy band because he, and I quote, ‘doesn’t want Jake near someone who abuses his power in such a way.’ Martin’s scared he’s a pedophile.”

“No, no, not my Priest. Just his brother.”

Claire slams her teacup down into the saucer, staring at me, face straining. “Excuse me?”

(Did I say that out loud?) “More sugar?”

“His brother is a _pedophile_?” She emphasizes the last word a bit too loudly, and the entire tearoom turns to stare at us for a moment.

I try to save face: “Kevin Spacey, that bastard.”

The room hums in agreement before returning to their conversations.

“God, I can’t believe what you’re going to be marrying into.”

I start awkwardly chortling, “Ah-ha, no, no, we haven’t… we’re not…”

Claire looks at me blankly. “You realize that you _will_ more than likely get married, don’t you? He’s leaving the priesthood, for God’s sake.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, this is the twenty-first century, Claire. We don’t have to conform to silly societal norms.”

“So, you’re saying you don’t want to marry him?”

“That’s not—I don’t—”

Claire hmms, and graciously drops the subject when the waiter comes by to take our food orders, leaving my head spinning. “Whatever. I told Martin that if he told anyone, _anyone_, about your—your _predicament_ that I’d cut the offered alimony in half.”

(Go Claire.) “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

She softens slightly and covers my hand with hers. “How’re you feeling? This must be a lot.”

“It is.”

“And?”

“I’m feeling…” (I miss mum.) “I’m feeling fine. Doctor’s appointment is tomorrow. Fingers crossed it’s not a demon child—some sick trick God is playing on us.”

She glares at me.

“I mean, we did almost fuck in the—”

“Oh!” Claire scrunches up her face and puts her hands over her ears. “Shut up, I don’t want to hear it.”

I acquiesce, and when she feels safe enough to drop her hands from her ears, I sabotage her and say, “We almost fucked in the confessional.”

“Oh!” she swats me on the arm. “You’re the worst.”

“I know.”

* * *

“I’m in love with your daughter,” he says. Straightforward and to the point, then. “And I’m the father. Of her baby, I mean.”

I cock my head, ascertaining and analyzing his delivery. “Hmmm…”

He spreads out his arms, “Oh come on! That was a good take, I think.”

“Maybe we should start with some exposition, you know, warm them up to it instead of diving straight into the deep end.”

“You want me to give them the dirty details of our relationship?”

(_Relationship_.) “Well maybe not the dirty details, but perhaps—”

He cuts me off and begins pantomiming a conversation with dad: “Oh, hello, sir. You may remember me as the Catholic Priest who officiated your wedding. Right, yes, it was all very lovely. I just wanted to let you know that the minute I saw your daughter, I wanted to rip the clothes off her body and go to town on her in the middle of that awful fucking restaurant—”

“Oh, fuck off, I get it.” I collapse onto the couch and drop my head into my hands. “Maybe it is just better if Martin spills the beans. That way we don’t have to deal with telling them.”

“Well,” he joins me on the sofa, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “We’ll have to deal with it regardless. They might as well hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“Ugh,” I collapse my head into his lap and lift my feet onto the couch so that I’m lying down. He strokes my hair away from my eyes, smiling down at me. “How’d it go with Pam?”

“It was fine. A bit awkward, but mostly fine. Although, I’m pretty sure she cursed me in Latin at one point. I might sprout a pig’s tail or wake up tomorrow morning with spots all over me.”

(Basically, fucking me is like getting -50 karma points. We might end up with a demon child, after all.) “You want anything to drink?”

“Always.”

I’m fetching a can of G&T from the fridge when the door buzzes. “Do you mind grabbing that?” I yell, kicking the fridge door closed and pouring myself a glass of water from the tap. I distantly hear him open the door, and exchange brief niceties with another man. Confused as to who it could be, I poke my head out from around the corner to spot––my bank manager?

“Oh. Hi,” I greet as I make my way over to the door. He takes that as a ‘come on in!’ and steps over the threshold, suitcase (suitcase?) lugging behind him.

“Hi. Sorry, I––”

“How’d you get my address?”

“From the business loan documents.”

“Oh?” (Breach of privacy.) “Um,” I cast a furtive glance at my priest, who is watching the exchange with an equal mix of confusion and entertainment, “But why are you here? With luggage, no less.”

“My wife kicked me out. I know I should’ve called, but when I was looking up your number, I saw you lived just around the corner and—”

“No, no, it’s fine. You need to crash on my couch?”

“Yes, please, I’ll be out of your hair—”

“Don’t worry about it,” my priest cuts in and bends down to pick up his suitcase. “Stay as long as you like.” He deposits the suitcase next to the couch and rights himself up again. “I’ll fetch you some blankets and pillows.” And with that, he disappears down the hall.

I stare after him, speechless and gobsmacked.

“Is that your boyfriend?”

“Oh, um, well—father, actually.”

“That’s your dad? Blimey, he looks young.”

“No, no, I mean—I’m pregnant.”

“What? Congratulations!” he makes to give me a hug, but then stops himself and instead awkwardly pats me on the shoulder. “Wait. Is this good or bad news?”

“Good,” I confirm. “Very good!”

“Then great!”

My priest returns, blankets overwhelming his arms and my favorite pillow (damn him) plopped on top. He deposits them on the couch, and then straightens up, looking at us expectantly. “Are you hungry? Because I’m famished. And—” he gives us a serious look, pointing at us both as he crosses to make his way to the kitchen, “—and, I make a mean risotto.”

* * *

One mean risotto later, and we’re laughing our arses off at the kitchen table. The dishes are piled high in the sink, and my priest and my bank manager (what the fuck is my life, really?) are red-faced and halfway into a bottle of whiskey, splitting it between the two shot glasses set in front of them. Playing cards are scattered about the table, game forgotten, as the father of my child finishes up a story about when he met the Pope in Rome.

“There I was, ever the nerd, hands shaking, wide-eyed and innocent. And he stood, right before me, looking absolutely ginormous—so intimidating, with the pointy hat and robes. Plus, he was looming two stairs above me, and I am _not_ a tall guy by any means.” (It’s so cute how expressive his face and hands get when he’s telling stories. God, I love him.) “And he sticks out his hand, you know, for me to kiss it or whatever, and I just slap it into my own and shake it up and down like _this_—” he mimes by waving his entire, extended arm its entire possible range of motion, “—and he’s looking around at everyone else like, ‘Who sent this fucker?’ and I realize what I’m doing _as _I’m doing it, and I’m so nervous that my brain short circuits and I just word vomit whatever thought is running through my head.” (Relatable.) “And you know what I say?”

“What?”

“I say, ‘Well he certainly won’t fuck me now.’”

“You did not!” my bank manager dissolves laughter and tears.

My priest basks in our laughter for a moment before conceding, “No, I didn’t. But could you imagine?!”

“Oh, you fucker.” My bank manager playfully punches him in the arm. “You really had me for a minute there.”

The laughter slowly dies before my bank manager speaks up again, “So you were a priest? An honest to God, Catholic priest?”

“Technically, I still am. I’ve sent in my ‘letter of resignation’ so to speak. So, whenever I hear back from my Bishop, it’s—” he drags to fingers across his neck and makes a cutting sound between gritted teeth.

(So morbid.)

“What made you want to leave?”

My priest involuntarily casts his gaze in my direction, before twiddling with the queen of spades once again. “Love,” he says gently, a warm blush rising into his cheeks as he stares at the face of the card, spinning it round and round.

“Ah, yes. Love.” He pours them both a shot and raises his in a salute. “Here’s to love.”

“To love,” says my priest.

They knock back the shots.

There’s a bit of a lull in conversation (it seems the night has come to a natural end), and my priest yawns as my bank manager mumbles something about getting some shut-eye and gives us a small thank you.

“Anytime,” slurs my priest as I cork the bottle and reset it on top of the fridge.

“Ready for bed?” I ask him.

He mumbles incoherently and tries to stand, before immediately stumbling over his own feet. I catch him and put his arm around my shoulders and wrap my own around his waist. “You certainly drank quite a bit,” I say, helping him down the hallway and into the bedroom.

“You’re… you…” he’s unable to get the words out, as yawns succeed them each time. I drop him onto the bed, and he flops onto his back. “You’re great.” His accent gets thicker when he’s plastered, it seems.

“Thanks,” I smirk, working on his belt and trying to work it out through the loops.

“God’s great, too. I’m going to miss him, you know.” He sits up onto his forearms and shoots me a sloppy grin while I work his jeans down his legs. “But I’m so excited for—for—” he hiccups. “For life with you. And the baby.”

I smile at him, tossing his jeans in the general direction of the laundry basket.

“I don’t know… I don’t know if I could follow through with lea—_hiccup_… if it weren’t for the…” he trails off, and my blood runs cold.

“If it weren’t for the what?”

“If it weren’t for the…” he snores loudly.

(Oh, for fuck’s sake.) “Hey! Wake up!” I gently slap him in the chest and he jolts up, accidentally head-butting me in the forehead. “OW!” My hand shoots up as I press down on where the pain is sweltering.

“Oh shit—I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—” he surges forward and puts his hands on either side of my face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, it’s fine, really.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I look up to see him watching me, looking concerned as I wince. I manage through the pain: “Well, actually, no. What were you about to say?”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“Wh—”

“Like, literally two seconds ago, you were saying something about leaving—”

“Leaving who? Not you!”

“No, the Church.”

“Oh, erm, I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, I’m plastered!”

“Oh, forget it.”

“What? No.”

“Seriously, let’s just drop it and go to bed,” I circle over the other side of the bed. “My head hurts and you’re drunk and—”

“No,” he says firmly, standing now, swaying slightly in his t-shirt and boxers and socks. “I may be drunk, but I love you, and if something’s bothering you, I want us to fix it.”

“Fine,” I take a deep breath. “It sounded like you were saying you wouldn’t leave the Church if it weren’t for the baby.”

His expression slowly seems to sober up as comprehension dawns on him. He considers this for a moment, and my heart rate increases with every millisecond that passes. “That’s not true,” he says at last.

I sigh in relief.

“Listen—” he starts to also make his way around the bed, “I want to—FUCK!” He starts jumping up and down on one foot, cradling the other in his hand—must’ve stubbed his toe. His balance, already off-center, is his undoing, however, and he hobbles for a moment before crashing headfirst into an old pile of depression laundry.

“Oh, my God.” I hurry to help him up, trying to hide my giggles as I do so.

“Oh, it’s funny is it?” he says when I’m able to help him to stand, old sock hanging from his ear.

“Kind of.”

“Ha-ha,” he says, now clutching his head in his hand. He looks genuinely annoyed for a moment, then catches a glimpse of my face, trying to hold back laughter. His body language relaxes then before he joins me and bursts into laughter.

“Bed?”

“Bed.”

* * *

The next morning, he seemingly makes it up to me by cooking us pancakes. While he’s at the stove, I give him a passing kiss on the cheek, and he lightly spanks me on the arse. “Coffee on the table,” he whispers, voice still laden with sleep, nipping at my bottom lip.

“Decaf?” This fucking fetus is taking away all of my guilty pleasures.

“Decaf.”

I take a sip from the mug, momentarily humming in pleasure when the addition of Bailey’s flows over my tongue. Then I pause, eyebrows knitting together, before spitting it back out into the mug. “Um, dear—”

He spots me with the mug. “Oh, no, no, no, that’s mine! Sorry, should’ve been more specific. It’s the red—” he points with his spatula to the red mug on the other end of the table.

I switch mugs and shoot him a pointed look.

“Nursing a hangover,” he says. “But—I’ve got pancakes and syrup and I can whip up some bacon if you like.”

My stomach revolts at the very thought of bacon. “Just pancakes is fine.”

We quickly wolf down our breakfast, joined by the harmony and cadence of my bank manager’s snores in the adjacent room. At one point, my adorable priest picks up his knife and pretends to be the conductor for the loud snores. (God, he’s a dork.)

* * *

We’re at the OBGYN’s office a couple of hours later, and I’m mindlessly flipping through a catalogue when he clears his throat. I glance up at him through my fringe.

“You—you know how I said I was an investment banker before all this?”

(I knew he was lying.)

“Well, I was giving it a lot of thought, and I don’t think I want to go back to it. It was just so…mind-numbing. And tedious. And _pointless_. I want to—if I’m not going to be in the Church, that is—I want to do something that gives back to the community. I want—I want to make a difference. Somehow. You know, Psalm 146:5–9.”

I cock an eyebrow.

He recites, and as he talks, his voice drops into this beautiful cadence: “Blessed are those whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the Lord their God. He is the Maker of heaven and earth, the sea, and everything in them—he remains faithful forever. He upholds the cause of the oppressed and gives food to the hungry. The Lord sets prisoners free, the Lord gives sight to the blind, the Lord lifts up those who are bowed down, the Lord loves the righteous. The Lord watches over the foreigner and sustains the fatherless and the widow, but he frustrates the ways of the wicked.”

“That was quite the speech, Father.”

“Oh, come off it,” he snags the magazine out of my hands and dumps it on a nearby table. “I’m serious.”

“I’m not making fun.”

“I know, it’s just… I guess I’m still overwhelmed… still sorting through some shit…”

I wrap my hand around his and lift it to press my lips to his knuckles. He smiles, then does the same to me. “But then I look at you, and it all fades away.”

I’m about to straddle him and ride him in the middle of the fucking waiting room when a serious-looking woman with glasses calls my name.

The room we’re sent to is a bit cramped, with diagrams detailing the trimesters along the walls and a three-dimensional model of a fetus at—according to the label—25 weeks of pregnancy. As I settle onto the crinkly, white paper, my priest gleefully goes to it like a moth to a flame and starts messing about with the different parts. I watch him with a faint smile on my face, until the model comes apart completely and different plastic body parts go careening across the room. “Oh, fuck!”

The doctor, it seems, decides to enter at that very moment as he’s fetching the baby from underneath the chair. “Ah,” she says, glasses perched on the end of her petite nose, “I see you’ve been playing with Gordon.” Her accent is thick, French, and honestly doing something to me.

“Erm,” says my priest as he nervously tries to put the pieces back together, “Gordon?”

“That’s what we named it. Gordon.”

“Oh, uh, well I’m very sorry Gordon,” he says as he finally gets the model back together again. I can tell his hands are shaking a bit as he comes over to hold mine, and I run a thumb across his knuckles in an attempt to soothe him.

“So, it says here that you estimate your pregnancy to be six weeks along?”

“That’s correct,” I say.

“When did you first suspect you may be pregnant?”

“When I realized I hadn’t gotten my period.”

“Which was…”

“Two weeks ago? I think.”

“You think?”

“Erm. Yes.”

“Have you been experiencing any symptoms?”

“Morning sickness. It’s fucking atrocious.”

“Hm,” she raises an eyebrow when I swear and scribbles something on her notepad. “And this is the father?”

“Yes,” he chimes in, all puppy-dog like.

I watch as she drags her eyes over his body. (Oh my god. Is my gynecologist checking him––)

“Hi. I’m Dr. Bisset,” she extends her hand towards him, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” I say, surging forward and grabbing her hand before he has a chance to do so. I bat my eyes as well, letting my fingers linger on her knuckles before pulling away.

“Right,” she says, dragging over the nearby ultrasound machine. “We are going to take an ultrasound today, to confirm your estimated date of conception, your estimated due date, and to confirm the fetal heartbeat. Additionally, we want to make sure the pregnancy is taking place where it’s supposed to, in the uterus, thus ruling out a tubular or ectopic pregnancy. We also need to determine the number of fetuses.”

Both my priest and I look up in surprise at that. “Number of fetuses?” he asks, voice shaking slightly.

“Yes, there is always a possibility for twins, Mr…?” she trails off, looking for him to fill in his name for her.

“Actually, it’s Father,” he says absent-mindedly.

“Yes, I know you are the father—”

“No, no, I mean that’s my prefix—”

“Well, not anymore,” I cut in, laughing nervously.

“Oh, no, no, of course not,” he squeezes my hand. “It’s just taking a little getting used to.”

Dr. Bisset looks at us with a quizzical expression, then shrugs it off. She turns on the machine, which starts to whir, and then gently lifts my t-shirt so that it’s tucked just above my ribcage. She squirts out what looks like lube and then takes the reader thing—not sure what it’s called—and starts pushing the lube about on my stomach. (It’s kind of erotic.)

“Ah,” she says, turning to the monitor towards us. “There it is.”

I stare at the fuzzy black and white screen. “Um. Where?”

“There,” she points.

(Where?)

I feel my priest crouch next to me, examining the monitor. “Wow,” he breathes. “Beautiful.”

(I don’t see it.)

“Isn’t it?” Dr. Bisset flashes him a perfect, pearly smile. “And, we can probably detect a heartbeat at this stage.” She flips a switch on the machine.

A pulsing sound starts ringing about the room, vibrating through my bones, and permeating my being. That sound—it’s coming from _inside of me_. Another fucking heart is beating in my body, _holy fucking shit_. I’m literally carrying a life, responsible for the entire being of another consciousness. (Oh God, I’m not going to cry.) Tears spring into my eyes. (I’m not going to cry.) My lower lip starts trembling. (Oh fuck.) Tears start cascading down my cheeks as I stare at the monitor, not caring that I don’t see the form on the screen, just using it as an anchor as the heartbeat takes over my entire faculty as a human.

I feel lips on my forehead, my cheek, and I realize my sweet, sweet priest is kissing my tears away. I look at him to see he’s also crying.

It’s real. He’s here with me. And we’re doing the damn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Still trying to figure out how they reveal the news to her dad and Godmother. I don't want it to be too gimmicky--I'd like it to be organic, humorous, but also heartfelt. It's hard to straddle that line that PWB navigates so well.


	5. Episode 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks, Hillary, moving, and feminist lectures.

We’re hunched in a taxi, necks craning over the sonogram. We haven’t been able to take our eyes off of it since we left the office.

“This,” says my priest, “this is better than any fucking prayer or vision or religion. _This_ is my religion now.”

I smile at him, cheeks all rosy and warm.

He leans toward me, lips brushing my ear, and I know I’m going to hear a naughty thought before his breath even brushes my skin: “And the fact it was that my cum that put that life inside of you.” He moans, low and deep in his chest, and I feel my panties flood. “Makes me want to do it all over again.”

His hand grabs at the inside of my thigh, and he lightly nips the skin below my ear. With his other hand, he grabs my wrist and brings it towards his crotch, and I can feel him straining against his trousers. “You do that to me,” he whispers. “You make me so hard. It drives me fucking insane.”

I grab his chin with my other hand and roughly bring his lips to mine. We’re devouring one another, mouths hungry and searching. He pulls away, eyes searching deep into my own, and then ever so gently pecks me on the lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I breathe.

***

We’re tearing at each other’s clothes the moment the door closes behind us. The only thing I can think about is getting this man in between my legs, inside of me, consuming my flesh.

I wrap a leg around him, and he grabs my arse, grinds into me, and then he lifts me into his arms so that I wrap both of my legs around him. I feel my back push abruptly into the wall, and his hands are creeping underneath my shirt and––I’m distracted by movement in my peripheral vision.

“Oh fucking hell!” I yell into his mouth and kick him off of me, immediately sliding to the ground, sending him flying onto his arse as well. He swears, grabbing at the back of his head.

“Sorry, sorry!” (My fucking bank manager. Had forgotten all about him, honestly.)

We straighten out our clothes, evidently mortified by the whole fiasco when sniffling catches my attention. I look over, to see my _fucking_ bank manager, red-faced and crying and trying to stop the tears with some tissues. He blows his nose and then tosses the used tissue into a slow-growing mountain at the foot of the couch. (Gross?)

“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be home by now,” he says, falling into the couch and collapsing his head into his hands. “It’s just—my wife, she called, and—and—and—” he falls apart into more sobs.

I look over to my priest, who’s looking at him with an expression of raw pity. We exchange glances before he quietly makes his way over to the poor fellow. “You alright, mate?”

In between sniffles: “No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” He joins him on the couch and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

There’s a lull, and then the sniffling slowly subsides. “In all started when…”

(I’ve heard this shite before.) As my bank manager and my priest engage in a free therapy session on my couch, I collapse into bed. (Pregnancy is fucking exhausting. And I could really use a foot rub.)

I begin to dose for a moment, drifting off into a quasi-dream state. There are flashes of color here and there, laughter echoing in my ears, and then her face comes into sharp focus.

It’s Boo, and she’s staring at me disapprovingly, hands planted firmly on her hips.

“You’re pregnant?” her voice rings out, shrill and cutting.

“Yes.”

“With who?”

“A baby.”

Her face splits into a grin against her will. “Fuck you, who’s the daddy?”

I shift my weight and bite my lip. “That guy who—”

“_No!_ Not him!” she’s laughing now in spite of herself. “You _know_ I’ve had, like, the biggest crush on him since I was twelve.”

We’re sitting on the couch, backs up against the arms, facing each other. I feel her toes dance up against mine as we spiral into another round of laughter. “It’s not funny!” I say, taking the offered spliff from her dangling fingers. “It’s actually really, really serious.” I inhale the weed and let the smoke expel from my lungs as I continue, “I mean, there’s a life growing inside of me for God’s sake.”

“Not for long if you keep smoking like a chimney.”

The scene shifts now. There’s no romantic interlude of flashing colors, echoing laughter. I blink, and it’s different. I’m on the couch with mum, same position as Boo, and in place of the weed, we are both sucking in nicotine like it’s our lifeline. My hair is longer, and my features softer.

“I’m serious,” she says, flicking the end of her cigarette into a nearby ashtray. She’s not laughing, but her tone is lighthearted and humorous, “Your father used to get absolutely _wasted_.”

“You’re lying,” I say, a smile edging at the corner of my lips.

“I’m not!” she gasps in mock horror. “I remember once at Uni, he drank four shots of tequila and made friends with some gay guys in the bathroom at some club. Next thing I know, he’s inhaling poppers on the dance floor and stumbling around like a fucking slinky.” She inhales, “Although, I have to say, he did have some excellent moves that night. On and off the dance floor.”

“Oh, mum, gross.”

“What? You think me and your father never had sex? How do you think you came about? Impeccable conception?”

“I think it’s immaculate conception.”

“Look at you,” she says, now from around the brim of her Aperol spritz, “brushing up on your religious knowledge. That summer with grandmother must’ve taught you a lot.”

“Yeah,” I say. “A lot of boring, useless information.”

“Hey now,” she warns.

We’re silent for a moment, before she starts back up again, murmuring under her breath, “God I miss the way your father used to fuck.”

“Mum!”

“Listen to me,” she says, suddenly serious and straightening up, tucking her legs under her, “if you ever have a kid, make sure that the guy knows how to fuck. The better the love, the better the kid,” she pauses, and her face gets soft. “That’s how I got you and Claire.”

My mind’s eye flicks back to Boo, mouth full of smoke as she asks: “Was he at least a good fuck?”

My dreaming ceases as I’m slowly jostled awake. It’s my priest, above me now, looking down at me with a tender gaze. “Hey,” he says as I rub the sleep from my eyes.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“An hour or so,” he joins me on the bed, wrapping his arms around me and tucking me into his chest. “Just long enough for me to convince your friend to get some fresh air. And some Jesus.”

“Ugh, sorry about that.” I snuggle deeper into his warmth. “They’ve been having issues for ages.”

“How’d you meet?”

“I flashed him in a useless attempt to get a business loan.”

“Hmmm,” he chuckles, nosing at my hairline. “Speaking of, when are you supposed to open the café today?”

“Closed today,” I murmur. “Sign says renovations. Will open tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow you’re supposed to help me move out of Pam’s.”

“Fuck,” I say, now rolling away. “Any chance Mr. Cries-a-lot can help you out?”

“Probably,” he says, pulling me back to him and pecking soft kisses along my neck. “As retributions for his sins.”

“Mmm,” I say, bending my neck to allow him more access.

Mum flashes in my head: “_The better the love, the better the kid_.”

I freeze momentarily. He notices—of course he does, he notices everything, damn him: “Something the matter?” He lifts up onto an arm to gaze down on me as I quickly blink away tears.

“_That’s how I got you and Claire_.”

I wrap my hands around his neck and pull him down to me, tasting the salt of his skin. “I need you,” I murmur against his lips, wrapping a leg around his hip to bring him fully on top of me.

He responds in earnest, biting along my jaw to my ear while his hands creep up my shirt before pulling it over my head.

“_Look at you. Brushing up on your religious knowledge_.”

I can feel him hard against my thigh, so I fumble with his belt and push his trousers down his thighs with my feet.

“_Fuck you, who’s the daddy_?”

I push my underwear to the side, and he curses when his cock rubs up against my entrance. I wrap a hand around him and rub the tip against my clit. He shudders.

“_Was he at least a good fuck?_”

He’s pushing inside of me now. It’s hot, it’s fast, it’s needy. I can hear him panting in my ear, whispering sweet nothings: “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He’s practically chanting it, and I hear myself whispering back in earnest, slowly tightening around his pulsing cock.

“I want to come inside of you,” he says, and when he does, I see two mouths in my mind’s eyes, chanting it in tandem.

“I want your cum,” I say as I lick my way down his neck and bite his collarbone.

He wraps a hand around my jaw, directs my gaze to meet his own. There’s a hunger in his eyes. Something searching, something matching my own sudden need to be _filled_, the need to be _wanted_, the need to be _loved_. And then he’s cumming, spasming inside of me, a low groan vibrating deep in his chest.

He collapses to the side, panting, as his words and the words of another continue to reverberate around in my head: “_I want to come inside of you_.”

* * *

Why did I ever think Chatty Tuesdays were a good idea? My stomach every time someone inquires about my day, and I want to scream at them that I hope they’re enjoying the puke that I threw up in their morning coffee. Seriously, morning sickness is a bitch.

It, along with most of the crowd, subsides after lunch. I decide to close early, starting to clean around the back kitchen while two girls linger at the front door, having run into each other and are keen to catch up. When they leave, I begin wiping down the tables in the front, with only Hillary’s rustling to keep me company.

Only Hillary isn’t her usual chipper self. I can’t hear her rummaging about her cage as she usually does when the café empties. Curious, I make my way over. Hillary is gone.

I drop a mug in shock, and it lands on my big toe.

(_Motherfuck_—)

* * *

“Oy! What’s the matter?”

I’m panting, red-faced, panic writ all over my face when I see him. We’re surrounded by boxes in his place, my bank manager wrapping a ceramic Jesus in newspaper, steadily minding his own business. Pam—thank God—is nowhere to be seen.

“Hillary’s gone.”

“What—what do you mean she’s gone? Is she—”

“I don’t know. I don’t know where she is. I was closing up the shop and _poof! _She disappeared.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“You’re sure she’s not just hiding about the café like that one time?”

“I looked everywhere. I think someone stole her.”

“You think someone stole Hillary? Who would do that?”

“I don’t know—someone who hates me. Martin? Maybe Pam?”

From the top floor: “I can hear you!”

I ignore her. Run my hands through my hair. “Fuck, Boo is going to be so pissed.”

“Boo? Who’s Boo?”

(Had I mentioned that we haven’t yet had _that _conversation?)

I sink into an armchair, exhausted. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. She’s gone.”

“Are we still talking about Hillary?”

Silence.

“Will you give us a moment?” he asks my bank manager, who respectfully exits the house, no doubt hankering for a cigarette.

My priest kneels in front of me and takes my hands in his. “Hey,” he says, voice gone all soft and inquisitive, “are you alright?”

“It’s just—” Boo’s face flashes before me, Hillary tucked under her chin. “I can’t lose her.”

“I know, I know,” he kisses my hand. “We’ll make signs.”

I nod.

“It’s okay,” he says, now nudging my knee with his chin. “We’ll find her.”

* * *

My hallway is stacked with boxes by the day’s end. They teeter above me, looming ominously. “You’ll take care of these by Friday?” I ask him.

“Of course,” he says, digging into the nearest box. “Oh! You won’t believe what I found in the attic.” He whips out a plastic banana that has a smiling face and is wearing a bowtie.

(Um.) “Wow. Cool.”

“No, no, that isn’t even the best part. Look.” He points it at me like a gun, and I only just notice his finger curling around something that looks like a trigger before water is splashing all over me.

“What the—”

“It’s a water gun!” he says delightfully.

“So, it is indeed,” I chuckle.

“And, and, get this—” he pulls out a Transformer toy. “I fucking loved Transformers toys growing up.”

“You kept those?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely. I’m a sucker for nostalgia, remember?” He hits a button on the Transformer and a series of static, mechanical noises emit from the device. “So cool. And, get this—” he pulls out a book, and I squint to read the title: _Winnie-the-Pooh_.

“Oh, my God,” I say, laughing and remembering our conversation from that night.

“Amazing, really! I’m such a hoarder, I love this shit. I have like four more kids' books.”

“Really?” I say, taking the book from him and flipping through the pages.

“Oh, yeah. I can’t wait to read them to our baby.”

“And play Transformers with her?”

“Oh, fuck yeah. Our girl is going to be the coolest chick on the block. I’m going to get her every Transformer there is.”

“Damn, she’s going to rule the playground.”

“Kids are going to want to be her.”

“_I _want to be her.”

We laugh, and his eyes linger on me. There’s still that longing that we share with every gaze, but it’s not as heavy as it used to be. That forbidden aspect has disappeared, and it’s been replaced with something lighter. Something easier. Something stronger.

I break eye contact and start fiddling with the tape on one of the boxes.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks, setting the toys back into the boxes. “Still thinking about Hillary?”

“Just—where could she have gone off to?”

“It’s so odd. Maybe she ran off with a sexy fox.”

I glare at him, but there’s no menace to it.

“We’ll distribute signs tomorrow.”

* * *

I’m standing outside, a light drizzle pattering against my rain jacket as I staple a missing sign to a telephone pole just around the corner from the café. As I do so, I feel eyes on me from behind, and slowly turn to see an elderly woman watching me.

“Um, hello,” (fucking, crazy, bat-shit, psycho looking lady.)

“What is that?” she asks, pointing a gnarled finger at the sign.

“Oh—that’s my guinea pig.”

“It looks like a rat.”

“Well—it’s not.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“It—”

“Oh, fuck off, it’s a fucking guinea pig, you wench.”

“Everything okay over here?” My priest walks up now, smiling expectantly at me.

“Oh, lovely,” I say, smiling at the elderly woman. “I was just telling this lovely lady where she can shove it.”

"Oh, that’s not—”

“Cunt,” spits the old lady before waddling away.

“Woah,” my priest’s eyes bug into saucers. “What did you say to her?”

“She thought Hillary was a rat.”

“Yeah, but that’s no reason to—”

“_She’s_ the one who called me a cunt, that—”

“Watch it,” he says, voice getting low and warning. “You can’t speak to strangers that way.”

I roll my eyes, “Yes, Father.”

“Watch it, or I’ll punish you for that. Ten Hail Mary’s.”

* * *

(He punishes me real good later that night. Ten Hail Mary’s for ten orgasms.)

* * *

Things run fairly smoothly for the rest of the week. No word regarding Hillary, but I’ve found ways to keep myself distracted (sex) and to keep my mind occupied (lots and lots of Obama speeches.)

By Friday evening, we’re sitting in a crowded auditorium, cushioned on either side by some rather unfortunate smelling people. I keep fighting the urge to puke every time this pimpled lady to my left raises her arm to scratch at her scalp. I watch as dandruff falls onto her shoulder, and my priest watches in humor as I openly gag.

“We need to move seats,” I hiss.

“It’s about to start,” he says back, looking around the audience. “And I’m pretty sure it’s a sold-out event, so… you and I can switch seats if you want.”

I look over him to see a greasy looking man with his finger stuffed in his nostril. (Feminist lectures are always filled with the vilest, the most disgusting––.)

“Good evening,” a voice booms from the stage, and I direct my attention to the ‘special speaker’ that’s listed on the front of the programme we were given by dad. (“It’s going to be a, er, a delicious lecture on the—on the…”. I had tuned out before I found out whatever shit hole the lecture was going to entail.) The title on the programme reads: _Deconstructing the Male Gaze in the Arts._ (I had actually been somewhat looking forward to the lecture. Obviously, that had been the wrong idea, because standing before me is no other than––)

“I am here today to tell you about the social connotations of my critically acclaimed sexhibition, in an attempt to deconstruct the misogynist, male gaze that is embedded into our visual narrative as a Western culture, as posited by Lara Mulvey in her seminal essay, ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.’ I frame this conversation by situating her theory of phallocentrism into my artwork of casted men’s penises, all of whom volunteered their likeness. These casts were taken from my various lovers over the past decade.”

Godmother smiles when she catches my eye, “Including that of my now husband.” She pauses, and her gaze trails to my priest, who is awkwardly squirming in his seat. Her smile becomes a bit stilted when she recognizes him, and I watch in horror as he raises a stiff arm to wave at her. She ignores it and continues on with her lecture: “It is important to note the semiotic implications that are evident through the casting technique: _casted _penis, _castrated_ member; _casted _manhood, _castrated_ masculinity…” 

When the lecture is finally over, a whole fucking _hour_ later, I’m in no way wanting to stick around for the Q&A session. Mics are being passed around by these hulking, black men in suits (yum), but I can’t stand to be in the room, surrounded by pasty looking Art History majors, for another moment. She’s diving into an answer regarding how to raise children without adhering to arbitrary heteronormative standards, when I finally whisper to my priest, who’s looking extremely scarred by the lecture, “Can we please leave?”

He nods.

“You get a taxi while I take a piss?” I continue.

He nods again, still glued to his chair.

“Alright, then let’s fucking—”

I’m interrupted by Godmother’s voice now booming louder from the speakers, “It’s actually quite similar to my stepdaughter, who’s expecting!”

I freeze as she gestures to me and then begins to clap. The audience turns their eyes towards me, and soft applause erupts. I’m surprised—and turned on—when one of the emcees holds out a mic to me. I try to turn it away, but he presses it into my hands and I have no choice but to accept it.

I clear my throat, and then say, “Thank you. We’re—we’re very happy.”

I make to give the mic back to the sexy man in black, but the other audience member with a different mic asks, “How do you expect to raise your child in a culture that enforces a strict gender binary on the population, especially into today’s political climate?”

(What the fuck?) I stare blankly at my priest for a moment, before opening my mouth to respond. Nothing comes out. I hadn’t even thought about these questions in raising my kid. It’s been a totally abstract concept. I stutter for a moment, and then a boom into the mic: “Carefully.”

Laughter softly permeates the audience, and I vaguely hear Godmother concluding the talk for today. People begin chattering as they gather their belongings. I turn to my priest, and say, “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” forgetting that the mic is still on. My voice echoes across the speakers and the crowd gets a bit quiet, stares at me, and then awkwardly returns to their own business.

My priest takes the mic from me, hands it to the emcee, and we’re bee-lining it to the exit when Godmother’s face is suddenly in my line of vision, and she’s cutting us off from the double doors. “Darling! What a delightful surprise. I do remember your father mentioning that he was going to give you tickets, but I didn’t think you’d actually come. And Father, what a delight! It’s so great to see you continuing to give my dear stepdaughter guidance, especially as she braves single motherhood with her bastard child.”

He’s so taken aback that all he can do is gape at her. I, however, am used to it, so I clear my throat to direct her attention back to me. “Actually, it’s his bastard child.”

“Hm?” she looks at me with willful ignorance.

“I _said_, actually, it’s _his_—”

“I’m the father,” he interrupts, voice gone all hoarse.

She stares at us for a moment. “I’m sorry?”

“I slept with your stepdaughter and knocked her up with _my _child. _My _child, who I _really_ don’t appreciate you calling a bastard.”

She continues to stare in disbelief, jaw-dropping. And then, I watch as she whips into shape, schooling her features and narrowing her eyes, and she opens her mouth to say something that I _know_ will be cutting and awful and just— “Well it’s an accurate descriptor, is it not?”

“Oh, fuuuuck you,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, _fuck you!_”

“You’re the one who _seduced my priest_!”

"Actually, he's _my_ priest."

"I'm not sure if declaring ownership over a man is the right move to make here, darling. Haven't we evolved past such base instincts?"

"Oh, jump off a cliff," I say, hoisting my purse over my shoulder and grabbing his hand. "And by the way," I say over my shoulder, "it makes absolutely no fucking sense to apply Laura Mulvey's 'Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema' to your installation artwork when her essay is literally _about cinema_! It's in the fucking title, you wanker!"

(Thank you Claire and Martin for inundating me with useless art knowledge.)

I make to leave, but I have to get in one last word: "_And _he totally felt up my arse during your discussion on heteronorma--heteronorm--heteronormaldhgkldjhsf."

(Well, at least part one went well.)

* * *

We’re in a taxi fifteen minutes later, backs ramrod straight and staring ahead pointedly.

“I want a drink,” he says.

“I want a smoke.”

“I _need _a drink.”

“I _need_ to disappear into oblivion for all eternity.”

“I need to drink myself into oblivion.”

“Fuck you for being able to drink.”

“Fuck you for not being able to get drunk.”

“It’s your fault.”

“I’m sorry my semen are so fertile.”

“It’s not okay.”

“And I’m sorry you’re just too sexy for your own good.”

“I know, my body is so delicious.”

“It really is. I’m sure I could survive on just eating you alone.”

“I believe your exact words were, ‘I could spend 40 days and 40 nights in that dessert.’”

“The dessert being your pussy, of course.”

“God, Father, you’re so naughty.”

“There’s more where that came from.”

A pause.

"_And_ I'm sorry about what happened with your stepmother."

"The evil stepmother? The wicked witch of the west?"

"I'm serious."

"God! Really, it's no big--"

"She's your family."

"Barely."

"Oh, come off it."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing, I just--"

"You want me to say that every time I see her conceited, stupid fucking face, I see my mum--" I cut myself off. "Forget it."

"No, I want to--"

"Well I don't. Let's just forget it." 

* * *

When we get back to my flat, my bank manager is knocked out cold on the couch. My priest grabs the rest of a bottle of bourbon and makes good on his promise to drinking himself into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delicious smut has been replaced with angsty smut. I'll try to work in something that's a little bit more... gratifying(?) but I haven't naturally hit a point that calls for self-indulgent sexy times. It's getting fairly plot heavy. I'm excited to see where it goes next.


	6. Episode 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's an errand day. And the to-do list? 
> 
> 1\. Dressing room smut. Be warned, it's a little kinky.  
2\. Run in with the ex. I did not forget about Harry.

The next day, we’re both sick, fighting over who has primary access to the toilet. I win, of course, and he’s delegated to retching over the kitchen sink. Upon seeing him my bank manager shouts, “Oi!” before examining the contents of his puke: “that don’t look too good, mate.”

The rest of the week goes smoothly enough. By the end of it, we’re so adorably domestic—shopping for bras at the department store that’s just around the corner.

“My tits look amazing,” I’m standing in front of the mirror in the dressing room, my priest occupying the corner seat watching with glazed-over eyes.

“I don’t remember them being that big.”

“Just look at them—they’re fucking melons. Big juicy melons.”

“Mmm,” he comes up behind me. Wraps his arms around my chest, lightly traces the scalloped edge to the bra with gentle fingers. “I think I may need a second look.” He keeps his right hand stroking along the edge while his left returns to my back to undo the clasp. Now, he pushes himself flush against me, and I can feel his cock slowly hardening through his jeans. His hands creep under my bra, gently pinch my nipples, and I cry out from over sensitivity. He smacks a hand over my mouth. His lips are at my ear as he says, “Shhh. We have to be quiet. Can you stay quiet for me?”

I nod as we stare at each other’s reflection in the mirror.

“Good girl,” he says, hot breath ghosting down my jaw. He bites my ear, and I moan. His hold over my mouth only increases in pressure.

Fingers dance down my stomach to trace the edge of my panties. He’s teasing me. Dips his hand underneath to gently part my folds. “Fuck you’re so wet,” he whispers. He starts rubbing at my clit, torturously slow. I start to squirm. “That feel good?”

I nod: “More.” My voice is muffled against his palm.

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.” The tight circles he’s tracing against my clit only slow down further. That motherfucker.

“More.”

“That’s not a very nice way to ask.”

“More please.”

He speeds up his fingers. “Good girl,” he says again, and it’s a good thing he’s practically holding me up against him because my legs buckle when he plunges two fingers inside of me and starts properly finger fucking me. He watches in the mirror as I pant against his hand, eyes dark and melted into pools of brown. He’s rutting against me now, hard as steel, and when he hits a certain spot inside of me and thumbs at my clit, I can feel myself edging towards an orgasm. “You wanna come?” he rasps.

I nod. Desperately.

“Then come.” His demand sends shudders through me. I spasm against his hand. Gush against it. He swears, pulls his hand from my underwear, and then he’s shoving his fingers in my mouth and I lick at my taste. I turn around, breaking eye contact for the first time since we started whatever this is and kiss him. Plunge my tongue into his mouth. We’re both panting against each other’s lips, and I fumble with his belt buckle. When it comes loose, I drop to my knees and take his length inside my mouth. The head of his cock hits the back of my throat, and I gag, but try to take more of him despite it. He swears, threading his fingers into my hair, and within seconds, he’s coming down my throat.

“Fuck.” He collapses to his knees in front of me—I get a strange déjà vu at that, like _I’m _the one he’s worshipping—and he takes my hands in his and starts peppering kisses in my palms. “I—” kiss “love—” kiss “you—” kiss “so—” kiss “fucking—” kiss “much.”

There’s a knock outside the dressing room door, and we both startle. “How is everything in there?” It’s the sales associate.

“Great, just great!” my priest calls out, voice gone all shaky.

We’re looking at each other with quietly amused expressions, trying not to laugh too loudly. He’s mouthing something at me [_holy shit!_] and I’m silently dissolved into giggles.

“Ok great, I just wanted to remind you…” her voice gets a bit quiet now, “that _there are children here_.”

We properly start laughing now, bellies shaking. Neither of us can get out a proper apology, and it shouldn’t be funny, but it is. Or maybe we’re just happy. Yeah. We’re just blissfully, undeniably, completely, totally happy.

And isn’t that something to behold.

* * *

“At least we didn’t get charged with public indecency,” says my priest.

“A small price to pay for amazing sex.”

“Just amazing? Not earth-shattering?”

“I suppose we could call it that.”

“You _suppose_?!”

“Alright, alright, it was earth-shattering. Heavenly. _Orgasmic_.”

“Well, that’s a given.”

We turn the corner in the tiny bookstore to see a mum with a six-year-old son. She’s glaring at us, hands pressed over her child’s ears as she carts him away from our indecency.

My priest grimaces at me. “God, we’re going to make terrible parents.”

I simply smile at him and start to peruse the shelves. We’re in the pregnancy section that’s nestled into the back of the store, cramped in a tiny corner. “Ah. _What to Expect When You’re Expecting._”

“You’re expecting?!”

(Oh fuck I know that voice. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck––) I plaster a smile on my face and turn around.

“Harry! What a lovely—” (horrific) “—surprise!”

Harry’s staring at me with a confused expression, cradling his baby to his chest. Just behind him is whats-her-face, who has a tight-lipped, uncomfortable, fake-ass smile for me.

“You’re pregnant?” he asks, clearly bewildered. “But I thought you didn’t—I mean—you always said you didn’t want to be a mum.”

I gesture generally to the book section. “Things change I guess.”

“Who’s the father?” His tone is carefully cheerful. Like he’s trying to hide his panic. My priest shifts to my left and catches Harry’s gaze. “Oh, hello Father, didn’t see you there.” He turns back to me: “So, who is it then?”

I don’t know where to look. My eyes just keep jumping left and right, left and right. “Um…”

“I’m the father,” says my priest.

It takes a moment to register with Harry, but then he’s throwing his head back and laughing. (Looking like he’s having an aneurysm, really.) “Oh—” he wipes a fake tear from his eye. “Oh dear, that’s a good one. I get it.” He gestures back and forth between us with his pointer finger before laughing again. “It’s a pun, see? It’s _punny_. Ha, get it?”

I force a laugh. “HA!”

“Dear Lord, those dad jokes always get me,” he calms down from his laughter. “Well, we really should be going now, but it was great to see you.”

“It was good to see you too,” I lie.

He’s about to turn to leave, but then turns and points a finger at my priest. “‘I’m the father!’ Ha! That really is a good one.”

I watch in parallel horror to my priest as the couple proceeds to the checkout counter. His girlfriend, fiancée, baby mama, wife, _whatever _is whispering urgently in his ear. He’s shaking his head, but then she hisses something, and the other shoe drops. His jaw drops, and I can just make out him saying: “You mean he was serious?!”

“We should probably get going,” my priest nudges me towards the exit, and I book it over.

Once we’re outside, we give each other a look that says _did that really just happen_?

“At least you have the dad jokes down.”

“It was definitely coincidental.”

“I prefer to think you’re a natural.”

“Can we please get a fucking drink?”

“I’d be more than happy to watch you down several G&Ts after that fiasco.”

“Excellent.”

* * *

I get a text from dad Saturday night as I’m curled up on the couch with my priest shoveling potato chips in my face. My bank manager is idly flipping through the golf channels (snoozefest). (How the fuck did I end up here? Really. My closest friends are my fucking priest and my bank manager. I must really have a thing for authority.)

He invites us to Sunday brunch, and I moan and bitch about it for the next two hours, trying to come up with an excuse not to go. It’s only when we’re changing into our pajamas for bed that my priest snaps. “I think we should go.”

“What? And endure more of that terrible woman?”

“She’s your family.” I roll my eyes. “And…” he walks across the mattress on his knees to come over to my side where I’m standing. Wraps his arms around my waist. “…I’d like for them to start considering me as part of the family, too.”

My exasperated expression melts away at that. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Are you saying…” (Are you saying that you want to marry me one day?)

He hushes me with a finger over my lips. “I’m in this with you. Forever. You hear?”

(Loud and clear.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hopefully, I'll have a chapter out next week detailing what exactly goes down on Sunday with the fam. There will be cupcakes and surprises.


	7. Episode 7

“We need to find a church.”

“Ugh. Really?”

“Don’t _ugh really _me. Yes we need a church! Maybe something a bit more local? So we can get involved in the community?”

“I really think you should find a job first,” I say it quick, snappy, and just a touch (okay maybe a bit more than a touch) annoyed.

He stops walking when I say that, and I’m ahead a few feet when I notice he’s gone still, so I loop back around to stare at him. (Oh.) He’s hurt. Very hurt. (Oops.)

“Don’t do that right now.”

(Do what?)

“That. Breaking the fourth wall.”

“Ok. Sorry.” My phone buzzes as I press my lips into a thin line and bulge my eyes slightly—a barely contained eyeroll.

“And don’t act all righteous toward me—”

“I’m sorry!” Exasperated now.

“Because _as you very well know _I did have a job. A career, even. And then _someone _fucked it up for me.” My phone buzzes again.

“Oh, you mean when you quit your six-figure salary to chase after fairytales?”

As soon as I say it, I know I fucked up.

He swallows. When he speaks, his voice is low. Dangerous even. “I’m not having this conversation right now. Not with you. I don’t have to justify my faith.”

I open my mouth to apologize for—what? The third time within three minutes? But then I clamp it shut and try to distract myself from the situation by checking my phone, which has turned into a fucking _bumblebee _with all the texts coming in. I don’t get the chance though, because he stops me by raising his hand. “I don’t want to fight. I like that you challenge me, I really do. But I draw the line at petty insults. If we’re going to build a life together, you have to accept that religion is a huge part of mine. And thus, it’s going to be a part of yours as well. And our child’s.”

I try to blink away the tears in my eyes.

“Yeah?” he asks for confirmation.

“Yeah,” I rasp.

“Great. Can you please look at me?”

When I do, I see his jaw is tense and he’s also trying to hold back tears. (I’m really a piece of shit sometimes.)

“Yeah. I can be a piece of shit too.” His body language relaxes, and he walks over to me, while I try not to let my confusion show at how in the hell he heard that. He traces my jawline and gives me a watery, shaky smile. “This… this is gonna be a lot of work, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. But I think… I think it’s worth it.”

“I think so too.”

We stare at each other for a moment, there on the sidewalk, letting the unspoken hang in the air between us. We’re smiling—only slightly—because there’s still a lot of shit to resolve. But yeah. It’s fucking worth it.

I shake myself from our collective stupor and gaze down the street. “You ready to do this?”

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

He wraps his hand around mine, and we walk all of fifty feet until we get to dad’s place. The walk to the door has never felt so long in my damn life, and I’m practically panting like a bitch by the time he rings the doorbell. (Pregnancy fatigue is real.)

“Well, if it isn’t the happy couple!” The door swings open, and Godmother is dressed to the nines, a plastic smile to boot. “You two make quite the cozy picture. Come in, come in. We’re all set up in the gardens.”

We exchange confused looks. (A casual brunch in the garden?)

As we step inside, Claire whips around the corner. “There you are!” she exasperated, stressed, harried-looking. (Nothing out of the ordinary, then.) “I’ve been texting you—”

“I thought you were in Finland?”

“Last minute flight. _Someone _said _something _about an _emergency_.” She points to Godmother with her eyes upon each stressing of the word.

“I’d think this constitutes as an emergency,” says Godmother. 

“Whatever,” says Claire, “I need to talk to you.” She wraps a hand around my arm and starts to pull me upstairs.

“Can’t it wait?” asks Godmother.

“No,” says Claire.

“Hm, I think it can, actually. There will be plenty of time for talking. Come, come.” She snaps her fingers, and Claire lets out a suppressed groan as we follow her through the house.

As we walk, she tries mouthing all sorts of nonsense to me.

_What?! _I mouth back.

_Check. Your. Phone, _she dramatically mouths while pointing at her cell.

“Oh, erm—”

I’m fishing for my phone in my pocket as we step outside, only to be stopped with what feels like a heart attack when I hear a chorus of people yell, “SURPRISE!”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” my priest exclaims, slapping a hand over his heart and stumbling backward at the sight of at least _fifty people_ staring at us in the garden. There’s a banner hung in the trees, which reads: _Congratulations! _Tied to the banner are shiny silver balloons shaped in letters that spell out _Oh baby! _and there are white tables everywhere, some piled with gifts, others with cupcakes and candy. I don’t recognize a single fucking person in the audience except for dad, who’s standing off to the side looking miserable. Everyone is sporting a glass of champagne (and really, how indecent? Drinking alcohol in front of a pregnant woman?) and they’re all looking just a bit tipsy. I can’t help but flare with jealousy at that.

“It’s a baby shower!” says Godmother, wriggling her fingers in jazz hands.

“Oh that’s… that’s… great,” I manage. “You know baby showers don’t take place until, like, _way later in_ the pregnancy? Like the third trimester?”

“Oh, but that would ruin the surprise! And we all know how much of a procrastinator you are, dear, so I thought we should get ahead of the game for you.”

“I tried to warn you,” says Clare in my ear.

“How kind of you,” my priest doesn’t sound the least bit convincing.

“Oh darling, careful with the glasses," says Godmother, twittering away to micromanage a poor waiter.

I turn to my priest. “Are you ok?”

“Did she tell everyone… because I think I recognize some people from—”

“Father!” That group of hot white yoga moms swarm us, knocking me out of the way with their bony hips.

“We had _no idea _that you had left the priesthood,” says a blonde one.

“You should have told me,” says a brunette, stroking her hand over his bicep.

I share a disgusted look with Claire, and gesture with my head towards the cupcake table. I do not want to see bimbos fawning over my man, who is awkwardly trying to fend off their advances.

“Thanks for the warning,” I say as I unwrap a cupcake.

“I did try.”

“Not well enough.”

“Whatever. This whole thing is ridiculous.”

“It’ll save me a lot of money.”

“Ugh, look at these,” Claire raises one of the perfectly baked cupcakes in the air. It’s topped with swirling icing, with detailed sprinkles spelling out in pink and blue: _boy or girl?_“It’s nauseatingly adorable. And those presents. How atrocious and over the top.”

“Glad to see that’s nothing’s changed with you,” I remark, mouth full of cupcake, spewing crumbs all over her.

She shudders and brushes them off of her pristine dress. “Sorry, I just… Klare and I are trying.”

“Trying my nerves?”

“Fuck off. We’re _trying_. You know. For a baby.”

“Oh.” (Here we go.)

“And it’s proving to be just as hard as it was with Martin and I’m starting to think that maybe I’m the problem and I’ll never have this beautiful pregnancy like you and I’m going to be inseminated in a lab or find a fucking surrogate—or _worse, _adoption.”

“Claire, calm down—”

“Meanwhile, you decide to fuck a fucking priest and get fucking pregnant without even trying and it’s not fucking fair and—” she stops in her tirade and looks down at her hand, which is now covered in icing and crumbs. In her anger, she grasped a cupcake too hard and it fell apart in her vice-like grip. “Fuck.” She wipes at her hand with a pink napkin. “It’s just… stupid.”

“I didn’t plan this.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t even want it, really.”

“If you didn’t want it, then you would’ve had an abortion like last time.”

I feel a wave of nausea rush through me at that mention.

“Face it, the only reason you kept it was to trap him.”

“Excuse me?” I say through a disbelieving laugh. “Did you really just say what I think you did?”

“Oh come off it—”

We’re interrupted by Godmother waltzing over. “Girls! We’re about to start the games! Come sit.”

We’re led over to some lawn chairs arranged in a big circle. I didn’t know lawn chairs could be extravagant, but _fuck, _the cushions on this thing are magnificent. (Now that I’m sitting down, I do see some familiar faces. Angela Dawson, childhood friend. She’s the one with the adult acne and greasy hair. Next to her is Helen _Biggers_, who’s certainly gotten _bigger _over the past few years. And then there’s fucking Rachel Court, or as I like to call her, Rachel Cunt, seeing as she cut a huge chunk out of my hair in Year Nine.)

My priest sits down next to me—pushed down, more like, by Godmother, with sturdy hands on his shoulders. He shoots me a scared smile with bugging eyes—_what the fuck_? he’s telepathically saying.

I shake my head: _just go with it_.

Godmother takes her seat at the head of the circle in this throne-like chair. Fitting, but why the fuck am I not in that chair?

“Thank you all for joining me today to celebrate the conception of my step-grandchild.” She golf claps and the crowd follows suit. “I have some fun games to play! First on the list: the dirty diaper game!”

The wait staff carries out an overflowing box full of diapers. One drops onto the grass, and I see something brown leaking out of it…

“Is that shit?” asks my priest.

“Oh! No, no, that’s chocolate. See, you smell and taste the diaper and you trying to guess what kind of candy’s been melted into it.”

“I am not doing that,” says my priest.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not smelling or tasting something that by all means and purposes, looks like shit.”

I’m trying to hold back my laughter. “Yeah, yeah, I’m not playing this either. I’ve been having really bad morning sickness, and I think I might puke—”

“Fine then!” Godmother chirps, looking like we’re wearing on her nerves. “Take the diapers away.” She snaps her fingers, and the waiters cart the box away. “Next game.”

(She’s trying so hard not to lose her shit.)

“The baby food game. Everyone will pair up, one will be blindfolded, and the other will feed them an assortment of baby food.”

“Sounds more like torture,” I say.

My priest unsuccessfully tampers a bark of laughter.

Through gritted teeth, Godmother continues, “And then the other person will guess what the food is.” She claps her hand and waiters bring out trays for everyone.

Everyone dissolves into conversation, negotiating the terms and finding partners. I turn to my priest and look disapprovingly at the bottles of mush. “I am not eating that.”

“You’re gonna infantilize me instead? I have to be the one to suffer right now?”

“You’re not the one with constant fucking nausea and fatigue. Hello? I’m the one who’s growing a life inside of me right now.”

“Fine.” He ties the blindfold around his head.

“Mmm. I kinda like this look.”

“You find this sexy?”

“I think the image would be better complete with a pair of handcuffs.”

“That can be arranged.”

I scoop a mush of an orange looking substance out of the jar with a spoon. “Here comes the airplane,” I singsong, tapping the spoon against his lips. He eats it, and then seems to be pleasantly surprised with the taste, tilting his head to consider it and smacking his lips.

“Is that carrot?”

“Ding! Correct, we have a winner.”

“It’s not bad! Ok, I can do this, give me the next spoonful of goo.”

This one looks real gross. It’s a strange green/brown color. I feed it to him, and it doesn’t even make it all the way into his mouth before he spitting it out—all over my face.

“Oh my God!”

“Oh my God!” He takes out his blindfold and gapes in horror at me. “I am so sorry, it was just so gross, I didn’t mean to—” he starts laughing. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny, well, it is kind of funny—”

He relaxes when he sees that I’m laughing too. Hysterically, actually. I practically fall out of my chair and into his arms, face full of green mush. “I fucking hate you!” I say with no real hate, smacking his arm.

“Here, maybe if I lick it off your face—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

He pretends to come at me, tongue hanging out of his mouth, and I shriek and jump up away from him. “Go get me a napkin.”

“Mmm. I kinda like this look.”

“Fuck off, go get me a napkin.”

He smiles and trods off to find one. I’m wiping some food away from my cheeks, staring at the ground, when my vision is suddenly clouded by a pair of dress shoes. I look up.

“Dad.”

“Hi, erm,” he gapes at me. “You have a little something—”

“Yeah, it’s quite the trendy look nowadays.”

“Oh, oh, um…” he seems at a loss for words, and my priest chooses that moment to bound up to me, napkins in hand.

“Thanks,” I say, and finish cleaning my skin.

“I was wondering if we could talk, actually,” my dad says.

“Oh, yeah, sure…” I make to leave with him, but he stops me.

“Not with you, dear, with him.”

“Me?” my priest asks.

“Yes. You.”

My priest nods, pecks me on the cheek and tells me he’ll be right back. They march off to a secluded part of the garden, and I nervously watch from afar as my dad somehow stutters through whatever speech he’s giving him.

I jump when someone suddenly appears at my shoulder. (Fucking Todd.)

“Have I told you about the time I did molly with Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez at BU?” he drawls.

“Fuck off, Todd,” I say and make my way over to the cupcakes again. I pick one up, sink my teeth into it, and the taste that floods my mouth sends me back. I blink, and Boo is standing in front of me, expectant and waiting.

“Well?” she asks. “Do you like it?”

I force the dry crumble down my throat and do my best to muster up an expression of pleasure. “So delicious.”

“You’re lying, you hate it.”

“I do not!” I set the cupcake on the paper plate, where a bite mark has destroyed half of the meticulous frosting where Boo had painstakingly written _Congrats!_

“I just wanted to do something nice. You know. For the baby.”

“I’m not sure the baby is too pleased about this.”

“Fuck you!” says Boo, but there’s no real heat behind it, and she’s trying to keep herself from laughing.

“I think we should leave the baking in the café to me.”

“But if I don’t practice, I’ll never get better.”

I blink and then I’m back in Godmother’s garden. My hand is shaking, and I drop the cupcake to the ground. The chatter around me suddenly feels too loud, and I have to—I have to—I have to get space, it is all just _too much _and Claire’s mad at me and if I don’t _the fuck out of here_—

“There you are!” my priest has returned. “Your Godmother is looking for you, apparently it’s time to open the presents… are you okay?”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. “I’m fine,” I snap and push by him to return to the circle of torture to open gifts. He follows, cautiously taking the seat next to me as Godmother corrals the crowd for this next portion of the event.

I’m handed present after present after present: a bassinet; tons of baby clothes with terrible sayings on them; teeny hats; blankets; a lifetime supply of diapers; pacifiers; and the most disgustingly adorable pair of shoes that are about the size of my pinky. Upon sight of those, the words of Hemingway’s six-word story swim before me: _For sale: baby shoes, never worn_.

Fuck, another flashback.

I’m standing in the kitchen with mum, swirling my red wine around my glass. Smoke is wafting from her trademark cigarette, and she’s smiling at me. It doesn’t reach her eyes, not quite. “I’m sorry,” she says. Raspy.

A hand on my arm jolts me out of my stupor. My priest is giving me a small, sad smile. His brow is pinched, and he nods as if to ask _are you okay?_

I shrug.

“Let’s leave,” he whispers.

“Now?”

“Presents have been opened. We’ll make up an excuse. Sunday service.”

He stands, abruptly, and pulls me with him, his hand still wrapped around my forearm. I’m vaguely aware of him talking to Godmother, thanking her, and I manage to muster up the tiniest of smiles before we’re able to make our exit. I thank my stars I don’t run into Claire again, although by the looks of it, it seems she booked it out of the party as well.

We make it to the bus stop, and I slouch on the bench.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ah, my priest. Ever the perceptive worrier.

I gaze at him. The tears still haven’t escaped my eyes. It’s like they’re trapped on the edges of my lids, barred from falling down my cheeks by an invisible barrier.

I take a deep breath. Gather my courage. And then:

“Her name was Boo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that comments and feedback give me life and drive this fic ;)


	8. Episode 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna wait until tomorrow or Wednesday to post this but I couldn't wait. Trigger warning for domestic abuse and heavy mentions of death.

**\- THEN -**

Boo’s got a bit of an asymmetrical face, I realize one day as we’re sitting down to devour a box of cereal. Her eyes are rimmed red—so she must be as stoned as I am then—and her grin is lopsided as she shovels a handful of Cheerios into her mouth. The smile disappears when she starts to chew, and her features contort into displeasure and disgust. “What’s the expiration on these?” she spews crumbs into my face. “They taste rotten.”

“I bought them yesterday.”

“Guess I just hate Cheerios then,” she says, setting it down and picking up a box of Lucky Charms. “These, on the other hand, are a work of fucking art.” She proceeds to pick through the box for marshmallows and suck on the sugary balls of diabetes.

I watch her eat, head propped on my knees and turned so that my cheek is mushed against the indents of my teeth. I must look overly introspective because she pauses in her sucking and evaluates me. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s exactly what you say when something’s wrong,” she shifts so that she’s facing me straight on, pulling her plaid pajama pants up her leg to reveal those cankles of hers. “Spill.”

I hesitate.

She narrows her eyes.

“Fine,” I say and match her body posture. “I’m getting an abortion.”

She pinches her brow, “I kinda figured considering we just destroyed a spliff.”

“Right. Well. I just don’t want the baby to end up like its father.”

“You mean—seriously? That guy is fucking hot and we’ve _both _been giving him heart eyes for, like, ever. Plus, he’s a _doctor_. What’s wrong with him?”

“I—” flashes of snarling teeth and shattered glass roll through my head, “He’s not as nice as we thought.”

Realization dawns on her face. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“Did he—did he hurt you?”

“No,” I answer too quickly.

“I’ll kill that motherfucker.”

“Boo—”

“With my bare hands. I’ll make it look like a suicide, don’t worry.”

*******

I see her, plain as day, walking out into traffic.

I see her red and weary face.

I see her mangled body on the pavement.

*******

I’m in the car with mum. We’re both sucking down cigarettes like they’re candy, the smoke trailing out the open windows. She has the radio cranked so high that the volume paradoxically feels like blissful silence. My face is stony, staring ahead, barely registering the red light ahead as we slow to a stop.

Mum turns down the music. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I don’t say anything.

“Claire called me.”

“Figured.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Will you stop fucking apologizing? You’re the one with cancer.”

“Jesus, I’m just trying to _empathize _here!”

“Well thank you _very _much but I prefer suffering in silence.” I cock an eyebrow and shoot her a glare, only to see that she’s pressing her lips together in an effort not to laugh. “What the fuck are you—”

“Two things. One: you have lipstick stuck in your teeth. Two: your mascara is clumping your left eyelashes into a single super eyelash.”

I whip down the mirror that’s above the windshield and inspect my appearance, scrubbing at my front teeth and picking apart my lashes as she dissolves into laughter.

*******

The laughter continues as I’m sitting at her bedside, only six months later. Her hair is gone, replaced by ugly, scabby patches. Her laugh is hoarser now, interspersed with throaty, phlegmy coughs. The grip she has on my hand is weak, but I can tell that she’s holding on as hard as she can. She’s laughing about some dumb joke I made about Godmother, who has filled the hospital room with so many flowers that mum’s paranoid a bee is going to sting her and she’s gonna die on the spot.

“It’s a little much,” mum admits once her laughter has subsided. “I do love that woman though.”

I give her a sad smile when she lifts my hand to her mouth and presses her lips to my knuckles. “I love you more though,” she says. “And I love Claire and I love your father. I hope you find love like that one day.”

“Love like what?”

“Love that makes you crazy and peaceful and existential all at once,” she sighs. “Love that gives you a feeling of unreality. Love that stays and infects your being.”

“Is that what happened to you? Love infected your being to the point of cancer?”

She smiles at my dark humor, “That’s exactly what happened.” Her voice is no more than a whisper now.

Our happy trance is interrupted by the door banging open and a six-foot-six hunk of a man strolls through, flashing me an ultra-white smile that rivals the bleached quality of his lab coat. “Ah!” he says when he sees me, “you must be—”

“Yes, yes, doctor, this is my daughter.”

I stand, “It’s nice to meet you. I think we may have met before.”

His eyes light in recognition: “Oh! You’re Boo’s friend—”

We shake hands.

A month and a half later when the doctor grabs my hand, he’s pressing it into the burning red stovetop and calling me a liar. It’s only seconds after I show him the pregnancy test, one week before I abort it, and two weeks before mum passes. I rip my burning, blistering hand back to my chest. My elbow collides with a water glass on the counter, sending it into the floor and shattering upon impact. I slap him and scream at him until my face is red that he leave my house and never come back. 

I never see him nor mum ever again.

**\- NOW -**

I’m lying in bed with him. My head is in his lap. I’m pretty sure I’ve stained his jeans with wet mascara and rubbed off foundation. He’s stroking my hair, and I nuzzle into his palm. I’ve told him everything.

“Do you hate me?” I rasp.

“Never.”

“Because I think I’m the worst type of person. I’m the Bringer of Death and Destruction.”

“_Santa Muerte_. The personification of death in Mexican-American Catholicism. Also known as Bony Lady,” he pinches my elbow, “like you. All angles and bones—”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

“What I’m saying is that you’re not the Bringer of Death and Destruction. There’s already a person for that. Sorry, the position has been filled. Maybe you can send in a resumé in a couple of years.”

I smack him in the chest, and he traps my hand against the steady thumping of his heart. He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles in a way that is painfully reminiscent of mum. Then he takes our joined hands and lays them against my lower stomach. “You have a life growing in you. I think that qualifies you for Bringer of Life and Growth.”

“Well I nixed the last one.”

“Are you asking for forgiveness?”

“I don’t—” I stutter over my words. “I don’t know. Maybe. Yes?”

His legs shift from underneath me and my head pushes into the mattress as he circles my body so that he’s now hovering above me, face half a foot from mine. At this angle, I can see his age; the weight of his skin pulls his wrinkles into even deeper focus, and his face becomes a topography of hills and valleys. “I forgive you,” he says, eyes flickering between mine. “I forgive you a thousand times over.”

I huff a laugh, uncomfortable with the seriousness of the moment and the earnestness of his voice. “What about God––does he forgive me?” I roll my eyes.

“Who cares?”

“What?” It comes out as an astonished laugh.

“Who cares what God thinks? I mean, I suppose _I _do, but what matters to _you _is if _you _forgive _you_. It’s not up to me, it’s not up to God, it’s not up to—oh I don’t know—”

“Boo? Because she’s fucking _dead, _she can’t—”

“She’s gone, love. She’s gone. She can’t forgive you.”

I swallow against the tears that are threatening to spill over. “But—”

“You may not be able to let her go, but you have to forgive yourself. That’s what people are seeking when they come into church. It’s about finding a way to absolve your guilt. Even if you don’t believe in it—there’s a beauty to the ritual.”

He kisses my nose and then nuzzles into my neck.

I stare at my ceiling, waiting for the images of Boo and mum and the doctor to flood my vision.

But nothing comes.

I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and kiss his ear. “So,” I say, “have you been doing research about what churches we could join?”

“Are you saying—”

“I’m saying,” I take a deep breath, “I’ll give this voodoo shit a shot.”

The feeling of his grin against the soft skin of my neck is all the answer I need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've definitely taken some liberties here. Happy new year :)
> 
> Up next: we're time-jumping to the second trimester.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Let me know if there are any glaring spelling/grammar errors, and I'll take care of them. Didn't bother to edit too closely. I enjoyed writing this, so please comment if you'd like to hear more :)


End file.
